SANTA     CRUZ 


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Gift  of 
Prof.  Benjamin  H.  Lehman     5 


SANTA     CRUZ 


RACE    QUESTIONS,   PROVINCIALISM 
AND  OTHER  AMERICAN  PROBLEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


RACE  QUESTIONS 
PROVINCIALISM 

AND  OTHER  AMERICAN  PROBLEMS 


BY 


JOSIAH    ROYCE 

PROFESSOR    OF    THE    HISTORY   OF    PHILOSOPHY 
IN   HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


Nefo  garfc 
THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1908 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1908, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1908. 


J.  8.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

THE  five  essays  which  make  up  the  present 
volume  were  all,  at  some  time,  read,  before 
various  audiences,  as  addresses.  Each  one 
contains  indications  of  the  special  occasion 
for  the  sake  of  which  it  was  first  prepared. 
Yet  each  one  of  them  also  states  opinions 
which,  from  my  own  point  of  view,  make  it  a 
part  of  an  effort  to  apply,  to  some  of  our 
American  problems,  that  general  doctrine 
about  life  which  I  have  recently  summed  up 
in  my  book  entitled  "  The  Philosophy  of 
Loyalty."  In  the  light  of  that  philosophy  I 
therefore  hope  that  the  various  special  opin- 
ions here  expressed  may  be  judged.  This 
book  I  regard  as  an  auxiliary  to  its  more  sys- 
tematic predecessor. 

The  closing  essay  of  the  present  volume 
contains,  in  fact,  a  summary  of  the  theses 
upon  which  my  "  Philosophy  of  Loyalty  "  is 


PREFACE 

based,  as  well  as  a  direct  application  of  these 
theses  to  a  special  practical  problem  of  our 
recent  education. 

The  first  essay  here  printed  —  that  on 
"  Race  Questions  "  —  was  read  before  the  Chi- 
cago Ethical  Society,  in  1905.  It  was  later 
published  in  the  "  International  Journal  of 
Ethics."  It  is  an  effort  to  express  and  to 
justify,  in  the  special  case  of  the  race-prob- 
lems, the  spirit  which  I  have  elsewhere  defined 
as  that  of  "  Loyalty  to  Loyalty." 

The  second  and  fourth  essays  of  this  book 
both  relate  to  "  Provincialism,"  —  the  one 
discussing,  in  general  terms,  the  need  and 
uses  of  that  spirit  in  our  American  life  ;  the 
other  sketching,  as  well  as  I  am  able,  the 
bases  upon  which  rests  that  particular  form 
of  provincialism  to  which  I,  as  a  native  Cali- 
fornian,  personally  owe  most.  The  paper  on 
"The  Pacific  Coast "  was  prepared  as  early  as 
1898.  The  general  essay  on  "  Provincialism  " 
was  read  as  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Address,  at 
the  Iowa  State  University,  in  1902.  In  the 
"Philosophy  of  Loyalty"  the  importance  of 


VI 


PREFACE 

an  enlightened  provincialism  is  discussed  in 
the  course  of  the  fifth  lecture  of  that  volume, 
—  a  lecture  whose  general  topic  is  :  "  Certain 
American  Problems  in  their  Relation  to  Loy- 
alty." What  I  there  merely  sketched  regard- 
ing provincialism  is  here  more  fully  set  forth. 
In  my  own  mind,  meanwhile,  the  essay  on  the 
"  Pacific  Coast "  is  a  continuation  of  the 
study  which  first  took  form  in  my  volume  on 
the  history  of  California,  published,  in  the 
Commonwealth  Series,  in  1886.  In  that  work 
I  stated,  in  various  passages,  views  about  the 
provincial  aspects  of  loyalty,  —  views  which 
have  later  come  to  form  part  of  the  more  gen- 
eral ethical  doctrine  to  which  I  am  now 
committed. 

Loyalty  is  the  practical  aspect  and  expres- 
sion of  an  idealistic  philosophy.  Such  a  phi- 
losophy, in  relation  to  theoretical  as  well  as  to 
practical  problems,  I  have  long  tried  to  main- 
tain and  to  teach.  A  familiar  charge  against 
idealism,  however,  is,  that  it  is  an  essentially 
unpractical  doctrine.  Such  a  charge  can  be 
fairly  answered  only  in  case  an  idealist  is 


Vll 


PREFACE 

quite  willing,  not  only  to  listen  with  good 
humor  to  his  common-sense  critics,  but  also 
to  criticise  himself  and  to  observe  the  defects 
of  his  tendencies.  In  such  a  spirit  I  have 
tried  to  write  the  third  of  the  essays  here 
printed.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  this  paper 
read  in  the  light  of  the  lecture  on  "  Con- 
science," in  the  "  Philosophy  of  Loyalty." 

Some  passages  in  these  papers  show  special 
signs  of  the  dates  when  they  were  written; 
and  therefore  the  reader  may  notice  a  few 
allusions  and  illustrations  —  due  to  passing 
events  —  which  would  be  otherwise  chosen  or 
stated  were  the  papers  composed  to-day. 
Thus,  my  sketch  of  conditions  in  Jamaica, 
in  the  essay  on  "  Race  Questions,"  contains  a 
few  s  atistical  and  other  data  that  were  pub- 
licly reported  in  1904,  and  that  would  need 
some  modification  to  adapt  them  to  the  pres- 
ent moment.  But  I  believe  that  none  of 
these  matters  interfere  with  what  my  volume 
attempts  to  be,  —  a  series  of  illustrations,  pre- 
pared in  the  course  of  a  number  of  years,  but 
all  bearing  upon  the  application  of  a  certain 

viii 


PREFACE 

philosophical  doctrine  and  spirit  to  some 
problems  of  American  life. 

I  have  mentioned  the  Japanese,  more  than 
once,  in  these  pages.  It  is  fair  to  say  that 
the  characterization  of  their  national  spirit 
which  occurs  in  the  essay  on  "  Provincialism  " 
was  written  in  1902,  and  here  appears  sub- 
stantially unchanged. 

Mrs.  Royce  has  constantly  aided  me  in  pre- 
paring these  essays  for  publication;  and  to 
her  help  many  things  in  this  volume  are  due. 

JOSIAH  ROYCE. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS., 
October  16,  1908. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.     RACE  QUESTIONS  AND   PREJUDICES     .       1 

Importance  of  the  problem,  1—4.  —  Summary 
statement  of  various  questions  about  races,  5,  6.  — 
The  defects  of  our  present  scientific  knowledge 
regarding  racial  psychology,  6-10.  —  The  lesson 
taught  by  Japan,  10-14.  —  The  lesson  taught  by 
Jamaica,  15-31.  —  The  meaning  of  race  in  the 
history  of  civilization :  sceptical  survey  of  the  state 
of  our  knowledge,  31-47.  —  The  psychology  of 
racial  antipathies,  47-52.  —  Conclusion,  53. 

II.     PROVINCIALISM 55 

Definition  of  Provincialism,  55-61.  —  In  praise 
of  provincialism,  61-67.  —  The  evils  in  American 
life  which  provincialism  must  correct;  first,  the 
evils  due  to  the  newness  of  the  country,  67—73.  — 
The  evils  due  to  the  levelling  tendency  of  recent 
civilization,  79.  —  The  evils  due  to  the  mob-spirit, 
80-86.  —  The  right  type  of  social  group  defined, 
87-91.  —  The  problem  of  dealing  with  the  mob- 
spirit,  91—96.  —  The  service  that  provincialism  may 
accomplish  in  dealing  with  the  foregoing  types  of 
evils,  96-98.  —  How  to  cultivate  provincialism  with- 
out merely  lapsing  into  narrowness,  98-108.  —  The 
province  as  an  ideal  rather  than  as  a  boast,  100— 
102.  —  Provincialism,  docility,  and  individualism : 
illustration  in  the  case  of  Japan,  102-105.  —  The 
cultivation  of  the  youth  of  a  province,  105.  — Pro- 
vincialism and  art,  107. 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

III.  ON    CERTAIN    LIMITATIONS    OF    THE 

THOUGHTFUL   PUBLIC    IN    AMERICA   109 

American  idealism,  in  its  popular  and  practical 
aspects,  its  power  and  prevalence,  112-125;  its 
excesses,  119-121;  its  good  aspects  seen  in  the 
modern  academic  movement,  122-125.  —  Ineffec- 
tiveness of  too  large  a  portion  of  our  ideal  istically 
disposed  public,  125-131;  illustration  from  our 
early  provincial  history  in  the  newer  parts  of  the 
country,  131-135;  and  from  older  communities, 
135,  136.  — The  cure  for  this  ineffectiveness,  136- 
165.  —  Difficulty  and  importance  of  this  cure,  136— 
139.  — The  tendency  to  abstractions,  140-143.— 
The  limitations  of  the  effectiveness  of  the  human 
thinking-process,  144-148.  —  Not  alone  philoso- 
phers abuse  the  reasoning  powers,  149-152. — In- 
stinct and  reason,  their  respective  practical  offices, 
152-158.  —  Resulting  advice,  158-160.  —  On  the 
love  of  the  "  new  "  in  thought,  160-164.  —  Practi- 
cal conclusions,  165. 

IV.  THE  PACIFIC  COAST.     A  PSYCHOLOGI- 

CAL STUDY  OF  THE  RELATIONS  OF 
CLIMATE   AND   CIVILIZATION     .         .   167 

The  journey  to  California,  and  its  goal,  as  an 
introduction  to  the  study,  169-173.  —  General 
review  of  the  physical  conditions  and  climate  of 
the  Pacific  coast,  174-187.  —  The  early  society  of 
California,  187-190.  — The  relations  of  climate 
and  mental  life  as  characterized  by  the  poetical 
writers  of  California,  190-199.  —  General  consid- 
eration of  physical,  social,  and  individual  condi- 
tions as  determining  the  Calif ornian  mind;  result- 

xii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ing  individualism;  accompanying  loyalty;  the 
tension  between  the  two  tendencies,  199-210.  — 
Historical  illustrations,  210-220.  —  Peculiar  forms 
of  individualism  in  California,  217-224.  —  Re- 
sulting idealism,  224. 

V.  SOME  RELATIONS  OF  PHYSICAL  TRAIN- 
ING TO  THE  PRESENT  PROBLEMS 
OF  MORAL  EDUCATION  IN  AMERICA  .  227 

The  general  relations  of  physical  and  moral 
education,  229-282.  —  General  definition  of  Loyalty, 
232-242.  —  "  Loyalty  to  Loyalty  "  defined  and 
illustrated,  242-252.  — The  first  way  in  which 
physical  training  can  be  of  service  to  loyalty, 
namely  as  a  preparation  of  the  organism  for  devo- 
tion to  causes,  254-259.  —  The  second  service  of 
physical  training  to  the  cause  of  loyalty:  team- 
loyalty,  and  similar  tendencies,  260-265.  The 
third  service  of  physical  training:  fair  play  and 
the  spirit  of  universal  loyalty,  265-271.  — What 
kinds  of  sports  and  contests  best  further  loyalty, 
criterion  stated,  271-276.  —  Philip  Stanley  Abbot's 
account  of  the  mountain  climber's  "  fulness  of 
life,"  277-280;  contrast  with  certain  other  types 
of  athletic  experience,  280-284.  —  Results  as  to  the 
values  of  athletic  sports  and  exercises  for  moral 
training,  285-287. 


xin 


I 

RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 


RACE   QUESTIONS  AND   PREJUDICES 

THE  numerous  questions  and  prejudices 
which  are  aroused  by  the  contact  of 
the  various  races  of  men  have  always  been 
important  factors  in  human  history.  They 
promise,  however,  to  become,  in  the  near 
future,  still  more  important  than  they  have 
ever  been  before.  Such  increased  importance 
of  race  questions  and  prejudices,  if  it  comes 
to  pass,  will  be  due  not  to  any  change  in 
human  nature,  and  especially  not  to  any 
increase  in  the  diversity  or  in  the  contrasting 
traits  of  the  races  of  men  themselves,  but 
simply  to  the  greater  extent  and  complexity 
of  the  work  of  civilization.  Physically  speak- 
ing, great  masses  of  men  are  to-day  brought 
into  more  frequent  and  closer  contact  than 
was  formerly  possible,  because  of  the  ease 
with  which  at  present  the  numerous  means 
of  communication  can  be  used,  because  of 
the  increase  of  peaceful  migrations,  and 

3 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

because  of  the  imperial  ambitions  of  several 
of  the  world's  great  peoples.  Hence  what- 
ever contact,  conflict,  or  mutual  influence 
the  races  of  men  have  had  in  the  past,  we  find 
to-day  more  ways  and  places  in  which  men 
find  themselves  in  the  presence  of  alien  races, 
with  whom  they  have  to  learn  to  live  in  the 
same  social  order.  When  we  think  of  East 
Indian  coolies  now  present  as  laborers,  side 
by  side  with  the  native  negroes,  and  with 
white  men,  in  the  British  West  Indies;  when 
we  remember  the  problem  of  South  Africa, 
as  it  was  impressed  upon  our  minds  a  few 
years  since,  at  a  moment  when  Dutchmen 
and  Englishmen  fought  for  the  land,  while 
Kaffirs  and  Zulus  watched  the  conflict ;  when 
we  recall  what  the  recent  war  between  Japan 
and  Russia  has  already  meant  for  the  future 
of  the  races  of  men  in  the  far  East ;  and  when, 
with  a  few  only  of  such  typical  instances  in 
mind,  we  turn  back  to  our  own  country,  and 
think  how  many  different  race-problems  con- 
front us,  —  we  then  see  that  the  earliest  social 
problem  of  humanity  is  also  the  most  recent 

4 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

problem.  This  is  the  problem  of  dealing 
with  the  men  who  seem  to  us  somehow  very 
widely  different  from  ourselves,  in  physical 
constitution,  in  temperament,  in  all  their 
deeper  nature,  so  that  we  are  tempted  to  think 
of  them  as  natural  strangers  to  our  souls, 
while  nevertheless  we  find  that  they  are 
stubbornly  there  in  our  world,  and  that  they 
are  men  as  much  determined  to  live  as  we 
are,  and  are  men  who,  in  turn,  find  us  as 
incomprehensible  as  we  find  them.  Of  these 
diverse  races,  what  ones  are  the  superior  and 
what  ones  are  the  inferior  races?  What 
race  or  races  ought  to  rule  ?  What  ones  ought 
to  yield  to  their  natural  masters  ?  To  which 
one  of  these  races  has  God,  or  nature,  or 
destiny,  ordained  the  rightful  and  final  sover- 
eignty of  the  earth?  Which  of  these  types 
of  men  is  really  the  human  type?  Are  they 
by  their  presence  and  their  rivalry  essentially 
perilous  to  one  another's  interests  ?  And 
if  so,  what  one  amongst  them  is  there  whose 
spread,  or  whose  increase  in  power  or  in 
number,  is  most  perilous  to  the  true  cause 

5 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

of  civilization?  Is  it  a  "yellow  peril,"  or 
a  "black  peril,"  or  perhaps,  after  all,  is  it 
not  rather  some  form  of  "white  peril,"  which 
most  threatens  the  future  of  humanity  in 
this  day  of  great  struggles  and  of  complex 
issues  ?  Are  all  men  equal,  as  the  Eighteenth 
Century  theorists  insisted?  Or  if  the  actual 
inequality  of  men  in  power,  in  value,  in  pro- 
gressiveness,  is  an  obvious  fact,  then  how  is 
this  fact  related  to  racial  distinctions? 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  questions  that  crowd 
upon  us  when  we  think  about  the  races  of 
men,  and  about  their  various  relations  to 
civilization.  I  do  not  mean,  in  this  brief 
discussion,  to  exhaust  any  of  these  questions, 
but  I  want  to  call  attention  to  a  few  principles 
which  seem  to  me  to  be  serviceable  to  any 
one  who  wants  to  look  at  race  questions 
fairly  and  humanely. 

I 

It  will  be  natural  for  some  of  my  readers 
to  interpose,  at  this  point,  the  suggestion  that 
the  principal  guidance  in  any  attempt  to 
answer  such  questions  as  the  foregoing  must 

6 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

come  from  an  appeal  to  the  results  of  the 
modern  scientific  study  of  the  races  of  men. 
Why  speculate  and  moralize,  one  may  say? 
Have  not  the  races  of  men  been  studied  in 
recent  times  with  elaborate  care?  What  can 
tell  us  how  to  deal  with  the  race-problems, 
in  case  we  neglect  the  results  of  anthropology 
and  of  ethnology?  And  if  we  consult  those 
sciences,  do  they  not  already  give  us  a  basis 
for  decision  regarding  all  such  matters  —  a 
basis  which  is  far  more  valuable  than  any 
chance  observations  of  an  amateur  can  be? 
As  a  fact,  if  I  supposed  that,  in  their  pres- 
ent stage  of  progress,  the  sciences  which 
deal  with  man  had  already  attained  to  exact 
results  regarding  the  mental  and  moral  dif- 
ferences, prospects,  and  destinies,  of  the  differ- 
ent stocks  of  the  genus  homo,  nobody  would 
be  humbler  than  I  should  be  in  accepting, 
and  in  trying  to  use  the  verdict  that  would 
then  have  been  obtained.  But  I  confess 
that,  as  a  student  of  ethics  and  of  certain  other 
aspects  of  our  common  human  nature,  I  have 
been  a  good  deal  baffled  in  trying  to  discover 

7 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

just  what  the  results  of  science  are  regarding 
the  true  psychological  and  moral  meaning  of 
race-differences.  I  shall  later  speak  further 
of  some  of  the  difficulties  of  this  scientific 
aspect  of  our  topic.  It  is  enough  to  say  here 
that  when  I  consult  any  of  the  known  Ras- 
sentheoretiker  for  light,  I  do  indeed  learn 
that  the  concept  of  race  is  the  key  to  the  com- 
prehension of  all  history,  and  that,  if  you  only 
form  a  clear  idea  of  the  important  types  of 
men  (types  such,  for  instance,  as  the  mar- 
vellous Germanen  of  Chamberlain's  Grund- 
zuge  des  Neunzehnten  Jahrhunderts),  you  can 
then  determine  with  exactness  precisely  who 
ought  to  rule  and  who  ought  to  yield,  and 
can  predict  the  forms  of  civilization,  the 
Weltanschauung  en,  and  the  other  possessions, 
which  will  be  characteristic  of  each  type 
of  men,  so  long  as  that  type  shall  en- 
dure. When  I  observe,  however,  that  the 
Rassentheoretiker  frequently  uses  his  science 
to  support  most  of  his  personal  prejudices, 
and  is  praised  by  his  sympathizers  almost 
equally  for  his  exact  knowledge  and  for  his 

8 


RACE   QUESTIONS  AND   PREJUDICES 

vigorous  display  of  temperament,  I  begin  to 
wonder  whether  a  science  which  mainly  de- 
votes itself  to  proving  that  we  ourselves  are 
the  salt  of  the  earth,  is  after  all  so  exact  as  it 
aims  to  be.  It  is  with  some  modern  race- 
theories,  as  it  is  with  some  forms  of  inter- 
national yacht  racing.  I  know  nothing  about 
yachting;  but  whenever  any  form  of  the  ex- 
alted sport  of  international  yachting  proves  to 
be  definable  as  a  sort  of  contest  in  which  the 
foreigner  is  invariably  beaten,  I  for  my  part 
take  no  interest  in  learning  more  about  the 
rules  of  that  particular  game.  And  pre- 
cisely so,  when  men  marshal  all  the  resources 
of  their  science  to  prove  that  their  own  race- 
prejudices  are  infallible,  I  can  feel  no  con- 
fidence in  what  they  imagine  to  be  the  result 
of  science.  Much  of  our  modern  race-theory 
reminds  me,  in  its  spirit,  altogether  too  much 
of  some  of  the  conversations  in  the  "Jungle 
Book,"  —  or  of  the  type  of  international 
courtesy  expressed  in  "The  Truce  of  the 
Bear,"  —  too  much,  I  say  to  seem  like  exact 
science.  Mowgli's  remarks  addressed  to  Red 

9 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

Dog  may  have  been  good  natural  history; 
but  scientific  Zoology  does  not  proceed  in 
that  way. 

While  I  deeply  respect,  then,  the  actual 
work  of  the  sciences  which  deal  with  man, 
and  while  I  fully  recognize  their  modern 
progress,  I  greatly  doubt  that  these  sciences 
as  yet  furnish  us  with  the  exact  results  which 
representative  race-theorists  sometimes  insist 
upon.  Hence  I  am  unable  to  begin  this  little 
study  by  a  mere  report  of  what  science  has 
established  regarding  the  mental  and  moral 
varieties  of  men.  I  must  rather  make  my 
beginning  with  a  mention  of  two  instances 
which  have  recently  been  much  in  my  mind, 
and  which  bear  upon  the  meaning  of  race 
prejudices.  One  of  these  instances  is  to-day 
in  everybody's  mind. 

II 

I  refer  then,  first,  to  the  wonderful  lesson 
that  Japan  has  been  teaching  us  regarding 
what  human  energy  and  devotion  have  done 
and  can  do,  and  can  do  also  in  case  of  a  race 
that  is  indeed  remote  enough  from  our  own. 

10 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

I  remember  well  the  Japan  of  the  geography 
text-books  of  my  childhood,  text-books  which 
were  even  then  antiquated  enough;  but  I 
believed  them.  Japan  was  a  weird  land, 
according  to  the  old  text-books,  —  a  land 
from  which  foreigners  were  excluded,  a  land 
where  all  things  were  as  perverse  as  possible, 
where  criminals  were  boiled  in  oil,  where 
Catholic  missionaries  had  long  ago  been 
martyred.  Whatever  the  Japanese  were,  they 
were  plainly  men  of  the  wrong  race.  Later, 
however,  I  learned  something  of  the  contem- 
porary history  of  Japan  as  it  then  was.  The 
scene  was  now,  indeed,  vastly  changed.  The 
Japanese  had  opened  their  land;  and  here- 
upon, lo  !  in  a  magic  way,  they  were  imitating, 
so  we  heard,  all  of  our  European  customs. 
So  we  next  had  to  alter  our  own  opinion  as  to 
their  essential  nature.  They  became  in  our 
eyes  a  plastic  race  of  wonderful  little  children, 
small  of  stature,  quick  of  wit,  light-minded  — 
a  folk  who  took  up  any  suggestion  precisely 
as  the  playful  children  often  do.  They,  too, 
were  playing,  it  seemed,  with  our  whole 

11 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

Western  civilization.  Plainly,  then,  they  were 
a  race  who  had  no  serious  life  of  their  own  at 
all.  Those  of  us  who  disliked  them  noted 
that  they  thus  showed  an  ape-like  unsteadi- 
ness of  conduct.  This,  then,  was  their 
racial  characteristic.  Those  who  admired 
them  thought  of  them  as  a  new  sort  of  pets, 
to  be  humored  and  instructed  with  all  our 
superior  condescension.  Well,  as  time  went 
on,  and  I  grew  to  manhood,  I  myself  came  to 
know  some  of  these  Japanese  as  students. 
Hereupon,  however,  I  gradually  learned  to  see 
such  men  in  a  wholly  new  light.  I  found 
them,  with  all  their  steadfast  courtesy,  pleas- 
antly, but  impenetrably  reserved  —  keepers 
of  their  own  counsel,  men  whose  life  had,  as 
I  soon  found,  a  vast  background  of  opinions 
and  customs  that  I  could  not  fathom.  When, 
I  said,  shall  I  ever  see  what  is  behind  that 
Japanese  smile  ?  What  is  in  their  hearts  ? 
With  an  immovable  self-consciousness  they 
resisted  every  effort  to  alter,  from  without,  any 
of  their  essential  ideals.  Politely,  whenever 
you  pressed  them,  they  declined  to  admit 

12 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

that  any  of  our  Western  arts  or  opinions  were 
equal  in  value  to  their  own  most  cherished 
national  ideal  treasures.  And  this  they  did 
even  at  the  moment  when  they  were  present, 
most  respectfully,  as  learners.  They  learned 
well ;  but  plainly  they  meant  to  use  this  learn- 
ing for  their  own  purposes.  An  enthusiastic 
lady  in  an  American  University  town  was  once 
seeking  to  draw  from  a  Japanese  visitor  some 
admission  of  the  importance  of  Christianity 
for  the  higher  civilization  of  his  country. 
"Confess,"  she  insisted,  "confess  what  a  boon 
our  missionaries  have  brought  you  in  intro- 
ducing Christianity  into  your  land."  "You 
are  right,"  answered  the  Japanese,  with  his 
usual  courteous  smile,  "you  are  right;  the 
missionaries  in  introducing  Christianity,  have 
indeed  brought  us  a  great  good.  They  have 
completed  the  variety  of  religions  in  Japan." 
This  impenetrable  Japanese  self-conscious- 
ness, this  unconquerable  polite  and  obstinate 
reserve,  what  did  it  mean  ?  Well,  Mr.  Hearn 
and  his  kin  have  now  let  us  know  in  a  literary 
way  something  of  the  true  heart  of  Japan. 

13 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

And  the  recent  war  has  shown  us  what  Japan 
meant  by  imitating  our  Western  ways,  and 
also  what  ancestral  ideals  have  led  her  sons 
to  death  in  battle,  and  still  hold  the  nation  so 
closely  knit  to  their  Emperor.  Already  I 
have  heard  some  tender  souls  amongst  us 
say:  "It  is  they  who  are  racially  our  supe- 
riors." Some  of  us  may  live  to  see  Japanese 
customs  pervading  our  land,  and  all  of  our 
professional  imitators  trying  to  be  Japanese. 
Well,  I  myself  am  no  worshipper  of  any 
new  fancy  or  distant  civilization,  merely 
because  of  its  temporary  prominence.  But 
the  true  lesson  which  Japan  teaches  us  to- 
day is,  that  it  is  somewhat  hard  to  find  out  by 
looking  at  the  features  of  a  man's  face,  or  at 
the  color  of  his  skin,  or  even  at  the  reports  of 
travellers  who  visit  his  land,  what  it  is  of 
which  his  race  is  really  capable.  Perhaps 
the  Japanese  are  not  of  the  right  race;  but 
we  now  admit  that  so  long  as  we  judged  them 
merely  by  their  race,  and  by  mere  appearances, 
we  were  judging  them  ignorantly,  and  falsely. 
This,  I  say,  has  been  to  me  a  most  interesting 

14 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

lesson  in  the  fallibility  of  some  of  our  race 
judgments. 

Ill 

So  much,  then,  for  one  lesson  of  experience. 
I  have  recently  been  much  impressed  by  an- 
other lesson,  but  by  one  of  a  very  different 
character,  occurring,  so  to  speak,  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  world  of  modern  race-prob- 
lems. The  negro  has  so  far  shown  none  of 
the  great  powers  of  the  Japanese.  Let  us, 
then,  provisionally  admit  at  this  stage  of  our 
discussion  that  the  negro  is  in  his  present 
backward  state  as  a  race,  for  reasons  which 
are  not  due  merely  to  circumstances,  but 
which  are  quite  innate  in  his  mental  constitu- 
tion. I  shall  indeed  return  to  that  topic 
later  on.  But,  for  the  moment,  let  that  view 
pass  as  if  it  were  finally  accepted.  View  the 
negro,  then,  for  the  instant  merely  as  a  back- 
ward race.  But  let  the  race-question  here  be 
our  own  pressing  Southern  question  :  How  can 
the  white  man  and  the  negro,  once  forced, 
as  they  are  in  our  South,  to  live  side  by  side, 
best  learn  to  live  with  a  minimum  of  friction, 

15 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

with  a  maximum  of  cooperation  ?  I  have  long 
learned  from  my  Southern  friends  that  this 
end  can  only  be  attained  by  a  firm  and  by  a 
very  constant  and  explicit  insistence  upon 
keeping  the  negro  in  his  proper  place,  as  a 
social  inferior  —  who,  then,  as  an  inferior, 
should,  of  course,  be  treated  humanely,  but 
who  must  first  be  clearly  and  unmistakably 
taught  where  he  belongs.  I  have  observed 
that  the  pedagogical  methods  which  my 
Southern  friends  of  late  years  have  found 
it  their  duty  to  use,  to  this  end,  are  methods 
such  as  still  keep  awake  a  good  deal  of 
very  lively  and  intense  irritation  in  the 
minds  not  only  of  the  pupils  but  also  of 
the  teachers.  Now  irritation,  viewed  merely 
in  itself,  is  not  an  enlightening  state  of 
mind.  It  is,  therefore,  according  to  our 
modern  views,  not  a  very  pedagogical  state  of 
mind.  I  am  myself,  for  instance,  a  fairly 
irritable  person,  and  I  am  also  a  teacher. 
But  at  the  moments  when  I  am  irritated 
I  am  certainly  not  just  then  a  good  teacher. 
Is,  however,  the  irritation  which  seems  to  be 

16 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

the  accompaniment  of  some  of  the  recent 
Southern  methods  of  teaching  the  negro  his 
place  an  inevitable  evil,  a  wholly  necessary 
accompaniment  of  the  present  transition  period 
in  the  South?  Must  such  increase  of  race- 
hatred first  come,  in  order  that  later,  when- 
ever the  negro  has  fully  learned  his  lesson, 
and  aspires  no  more  beyond  his  station,  peace 
may  come?  Well,  concerning  just  this  mat- 
ter I  lately  learned  what  was  to  me,  in 
my  inexperience,  a  new  lesson.  I  have  had 
occasion  three  times,  in  recent  summers, 
to  visit  British  West  Indies,  Jamaica,  and 
Trinidad,  at  a  time  when  few  tourists  were 
there.  Upon  visiting  Jamaica  I  first  went 
round  the  coast  of  the  island,  visiting  its 
various  ports.  I  then  went  inland,  and  walked 
for  miles  over  its  admirable  country  roads. 
I  discussed  its  condition  with  men  of  various 
occupations.  I  read  some  of  its  official  litera- 
ture. I  then  consulted  with  a  new  interest  its 
history.  I  watched  its  negroes  in  various 
places,  and  talked  with  some  of  them,  too. 
I  have  since  collected  such  further  informa- 
c  17 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

tion  as  I  had  time  to  collect  regarding  its  life, 
as  various  authorities  have  discussed  the  topic, 
and  this  is  the  result :  — 

Jamaica  has  a  population  of  surely  not  more 
than  14,000  or  15,000  whites,  mostly  English. 
Its  black  population  considerably  exceeds 
600,000.  Its  mulatto  population,  of  various 
shades,  numbers,  at  the  very  least,  some 
40,000  or  50,000.  Its  plantation  life,  in  the 
days  before  emancipation,  was  much  sad- 
der and  severer,  by  common  account,  than 
ours  in  the  South  ever  was.  Both  the  period 
of  emancipation  and  the  immediately  fol- 
lowing period  were  of  a  very  discouraging 
type.  In  the  sixties  of  the  last  century  there 
was  one  very  unfortunate  insurrection.  The 
economic  history  of  the  island  has  also  been 
in  many  ways  unlucky  even  to  the  present  day. 
Here,  then,  are  certainly  conditions  which 
in  some  respects  are  decidedly  such  as  would 
seem  to  tend  toward  a  lasting  state  of  general 
irritation,  such  as  you  might  suppose  would 
make  race-questions  acute.  Moreover,  the 
population,  being  a  tropical  one,  has  serious 

18 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

moral  burdens  to  contend  with  of  the  sort  that 
result  from  the  known  influences  of  such 
climates  upon  human  character  in  the  men 
of  all  races. 

And  yet,  despite  all  these  disadvantages, 
to-day,  whatever  the  problems  of  Jamaica, 
whatever  its  defects,  our  own  present  Southern 
race-problem  in  the  forms  which  we  know  best, 
simply  does  not  exist.  There  is  no  public  con- 
troversy about  social  race  equality  or  supe- 
riority. Neither  a  white  man  nor  a  white 
woman  feels  insecure  in  moving  about  freely 
amongst  the  black  population  anywhere  on 
the  island.  The  colony  has  a  Legislative 
Assembly,  although  one  of  extremely  limited 
legislative  powers.  For  the  choice  to  this 
assembly  a  suffrage  determined  only  by  a 
decidedly  low  rate-qualification  is  free  to  all 
who  have  sufficient  property,  but  is  used  by 
only  a  very  small  portion  of  the  negro  popula- 
tion. The  negro  is,  on  the  whole,  neither 
painfully  obstrusive  in  his  public  manners, 
nor  in  need  of  being  sharply  kept  in  his  place. 
Within  the  circles  of  the  black  population  itself 

19 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

there  is  meanwhile  a  decidedly  rich  social  dif- 
ferentiation. There  are  negroes  in  government 
service,  negroes  in  the  professions,  negroes 
who  are  fairly  prosperous  peasant  proprietors, 
and  there  are  also  the  poor  peasants ;  there  are 
the  thriftless,  the  poor  in  the  towns,  —  yes, 
as  in  any  tropical  country,  the  beggars.  In 
Kingston  and  in  some  other  towns  there  is  a 
small  class  of  negroes  who  are  distinctly  crim- 
inal. On  the  whole,  however,  the  negroes 
and  colored  population,  taken  in  the  mass,  are 
orderly,  law-abiding,  contented,  still  back- 
ward in  their  education,  but  apparently 
advancing.  They  are  generally  loyal  to  the 
government.  The  best  of  them  are  aspir- 
ing, in  their  own  way,  and  wholesomely 
self-conscious.  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  what- 
ever that  English  white  men  are  the  essential 
controllers  of  the  destiny  of  the  country. 
But  these  English  whites,  few  as  they  are, 
control  the  country  at  present,  with  extraor- 
dinarily little  friction,  and  wholly  without 
those  painful  emotions,  those  insistent  com- 
plaints and  anxieties,  which  at  present  are 

20 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

so  prominent  in  the  minds  of  many  of  our 
own  Southern  brethren.  Life  in  Jamaica  is 
not  ideal.  The  economical  aspect  of  the 
island  is  in  many  ways  unsatisfactory.  But 
the  negro  race-question,  in  our  present  Ameri- 
can sense  of  that  term,  seems  to  be  substan- 
tially solved. 

How  ?     By  race-mixture  ? 

The  considerable  extent  to  which  race- 
mixture  went  in  the  earlier  history  of  Jamaica 
is  generally  known.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  how- 
ever, it  has  been  rather  the  social  inequality 
of  the  races,  than  any  approach  to  equality, 
which  has  been  responsible  for  the  mixture,  in 
so  far  as  such  has  occurred.  It  was  the  social 
inequality  of  the  plantation  days  that  began 
the  process  of  mixture.  If  the  often-mentioned 
desire  to  raise  the  "color"  of  their  children, 
has  later  led  the  colored  population  to  seek 
a  further  amalgamation  of  the  two  stocks, 
certainly  that  tendency,  so  far  as  it  is  effective, 
has  been  due  to  the  social  advantages  of  the 
lighter  color  —  and  not  due  to  any  motive 
which  has  decreased  the  ancient  disadvan- 

21 


RACE   QUESTIONS  AND   PREJUDICES 

tages  under  which  the  darker  race  has  had  to 
suffer.  If  race-amalgamation  is  indeed  to  be 
viewed  as  always  an  evil,  the  best  way  to 
counteract  the  growth  of  that  evil  must  every- 
where be  the  cultivation  of  racial  self-respect 
and  not  of  racial  degradation.  As  a  fact, 
it  is  not  the  amalgamation  of  the  stocks, 
so  far  as  that  has  occurred,  which  has  tended 
to  reduce  the  friction  between  the  races  in 
Jamaica.  As  to  the  English  newcomers  to 
the  island,  they  probably  do  not  tend  to 
become  amalgamated  with  the  colored  stocks 
in  Jamaica,  more  than  in  any  other  region 
where  the  English  live.  The  English  stock 
tends,  here  as  elsewhere,  to  be  proud  of  itself, 
and  to  keep  to  itself.  How  then  has  the 
solution  of  what  was  once  indeed  a  grave 
race-question  been  brought  about  in  Jamaica  ? 
I  answer,  by  the  simplest  means  in  the  world 
—  the  simplest,  that  is,  for  Englishmen  — 
viz. :  by  English  administration,  and  by 
English  reticence.  When  once  the  sad  period 
of  emancipation  and  of  subsequent  occasional 
disorder  was  passed,  the  Englishman  did  in 

22 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

Jamaica  what  he  has  so  often  and  so  well 
done  elsewhere.  He  organized  his  colony; 
he  established  good  local  courts,  which  gained 
by  square  treatment  the  confidence  of  the 
blacks.  The  judges  of  such  courts  were 
Englishmen.  The  English  ruler  also  pro- 
vided a  good  country  constabulary,  in  which 
native  blacks  also  found  service,  and  in  which 
they  could  exercise  authority  over  other  blacks. 
Black  men,  in  other  words,  were  trained,  under 
English  management,  of  course,  to  police 
black  men.  A  sound  civil  service  was  also 
organized;  and  in  that  educated'  negroes 
found  in  due  time  their  place,  while  the  chiefs 
of  each  branch  of  the  service  were  and  are, 
in  the  main,  Englishmen.  The  excise  and  the 
health  services,  both  of  which  are  very  highly 
developed,  have  brought  the  law  near  to  the 
life  of  the  humblest  negro,  in  ways  which 
he  sometimes  finds,  of  course,  restraining, 
but  which  he  also  frequently  finds  beneficent. 
Hence  he  is  accustomed  to  the  law;  he  sees 
its  ministers  often,  and  often,  too,  as  men  of 
his  own  race;  and  in  the  main,  he  is  fond  of 

23 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

order,  and  learns  to  be  respectful  toward  the 
established  ways  of  society.  The  Jamaica 
negro  is  described  by  those  who  know  him  as 
especially  fond  of  bringing  his  petty  quarrels 
and  personal  grievances  into  court.  He  is 
litigious  just  as  he  is  vivacious.  But  this 
confidence  in  the  law  is  just  what  the  courts 
have  encouraged.  That  is  one  way,  in  fact,  to 
deal  with  the  too  forward  and  strident  negro. 
Encourage  him  to  air  his  grievances  in  court, 
listen  to  him  patiently,  and  fine  him  when 
he  deserves  fines.  That  is  a  truly  English 
type  of  social  pedagogy.  It  works  in  the 
direction  of  making  the  negro  a  conscious 
helper  toward  good  social  order. 

Administration,  I  say,  has  done  the  larger 
half  of  the  work  of  solving  Jamaica's  race- 
problem.  Administration  has  filled  the  island 
with  good  roads,  has  reduced  to  a  minimum 
the  tropical  diseases  by  means  of  an  excellent 
health-service,  has  taught  the  population 
loyalty  and  order,  has  led  them  some  steps 
already  on  the  long  road  "up  from  slavery," 
has  given  them,  in  many  cases,  the  true  self- 

24 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

respect  of  those  who  themselves  officially  co- 
operate in  the  work  of  the  law,  and  it  has  done 
this  without  any  such  result  as  our  Southern 
friends  nowadays  conceive  when  they  think 
of  what  is  called  "negro  domination."  Ad- 
ministration has  allayed  ancient  irritations. 
It  has  gone  far  to  offset  the  serious  economic 
and  tropical  troubles  from  which  Jamaica 
meanwhile  suffers. 

Yes,  the  work  has  been  done  by  administra- 
tion, —  and  by  reticence.  For  the  English- 
man, in  his  official  and  governmental  dealings 
with  backward  peoples,  has  a  great  way  of 
being  superior  without  very  often  publicly 
saying  that  he  is  superior.  You  well  know 
that  in  dealing,  as  an  individual,  with  other 
individuals,  trouble  is  seldom  made  by  the 
fact  that  you  are  actually  the  superior  of 
another  man  in  any  respect.  The  trouble 
comes  when  you  tell  the  other  man,  too 
stridently,  that  you  are  his  superior.  Be  my 
superior,  quietly,  simply  showing  your  supe- 
riority in  your  deeds,  and  very  likely  I  shall 
love  you  for  the  very  fact  of  your  superiority. 

25 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

For  we  all  love  our  leaders.  But  tell  me  that 
I  am  your  inferior,  and  then  perhaps  I  may 
grow  boyish,  and  may  throw  stones.  Well, 
it  is  so  with  races.  Grant  then  that  yours  is 
the  superior  race.  Then  you  can  afford 
to  say  little  about  that  subject  in  your  public 
dealings  with  the  backward  race.  Supe- 
riority is  best  shown  by  good  deeds  and  by 
few  boasts. 

IV 

So  much  for  the  lesson  that  Jamaica  has 
suggested  to  me.  The  widely  different  con- 
ditions of  Trinidad  suggest,  despite  the  differ- 
ences, a  somewhat  similar  lesson.  Here  also 
there  are  great  defects  in  the  social  order; 
but  again,  our  Southern  race-problem  does 
not  exist.  When,  with  such  lessons  in  mind, 
I  recall  our  problem,  as  I  hear  it  from  my 
brethren  of  certain  regions  of  our  Union,  I 
see  how  easily  we  can  all  mistake  for  a  per- 
manent race-problem  a  difficulty  that  is  es- 
sentially a  problem  of  quite  another  sort. 
Mr.  Thomas  Nelson  Page  in  his  recent 
book  on  the  "Southerners'  Problem"  speaks, 

26 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

in  one  notable  passage,  of  the  possibility  which 
he  calls  Utopian,  that  perhaps  some  day  the 
negro  in  the  South  may  be  made  to  cooperate 
in  the  keeping  of  order  by  the  organization 
under  State  control  of  a  police  of  his  own 
race,  who  shall  deal  with  blacks.  He  even 
mentions  that  the  English  in  the  East  Indies 
use  native  constabulary.  But  this  possibility 
is  not  Utopian.  When  I  hear  the  complaint 
of  the  Southerner,  that  the  race-problem 
is  such  as  constantly  to  endanger  the  safety 
of  his  home,  I  now  feel  disposed  to  say :  "The 
problem  that  endangers  the  sanctity  of  your 
homes  and  that  is  said  sometimes  to  make 
lynching  a  necessity,  is  not  a  race-problem. 
It  is  an  administrative  problem.  You  have 
never  organized  a  country  constabulary. 
Hence,  when  various  social  conditions,  amongst 
which  the  habit  of  irritating  public  speech 
about  race-questions  is  indeed  one,  though 
only  one,  condition,  have  tended  to  the  pro- 
ducing and  to  the  arousing  of  extremely 
dangerous  criminals  in  your  communities, 
you  have  no  adequate  means  of  guarding 

27 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

against  the  danger.  When  you  complain  that 
such  criminals,  when  they  flee  from  justice, 
get  sympathy  from  some  portion  of  their 
ignorant  fellows  and  so  are  aided  to  get  away, 
you  forget  that  you  have  not  first  made  your 
negro  countryman  familiar  with,  and  fond  of, 
the  law,  by  means  of  a  vigorous  and  well- 
organized  and  generally  beneficent  administra- 
tion constantly  before  his  eyes,  not  only  in  the 
pursuit  of  criminals,  but  in  the  whole  care  of 
public  order  and  health.  If  you  insist  that 
in  some  districts  the  white  population  is  too 
sparse  or  too  poor,  or  both,  to  furnish  an 
efficient  country  constabulary  constantly  on 
duty,  why,  then,  have  you  not  long  since 
trained  black  men  to  police  black  men? 
Sympathy  with  the  law  grows  with  respon- 
sibility for  its  administration.  If  it  is  re- 
volting to  you  to  see  black  men  possessed  of 
the  authority  of  a  country  constabulary,  still, 
if  you  will,  you  can  limit  their  authority  to 
a  control  over  their  own  race.  If  you  say  all 
this  speech  of  mine  is  professorial,  unpractical, 
Utopian,  and  if  you  still  cry  out  bitterly  for  the 

28 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

effective  protection  of  your  womankind,  I 
reply  merely,  look  at  Jamaica.  Look  at  other 
English  colonies. 

In  any  case,  the  Southern  race-problem  will 
never  be  relieved  by  speech  or  by  practices 
such  as  increase  irritation.  It  will  be  relieved 
when  administration  grows  sufficiently  effect- 
ive, and  when  the  negroes  themselves  get  an 
increasingly  responsible  part  in  this  admin- 
istration in  so  far  as  it  relates  to  their  own 
race.  That  may  seem  a  wild  scheme.  But  I 
insist:  It  is  the  English  way.  Look  at 
Jamaica,  and  learn  how  to  protect  your  own 
homes. 

I  have  reviewed  two  very  different  lessons 
which  I  have  recently  had  brought  home  to 
me  regarding  race-problems.  What  is  there 
which  is  common  to  these  two  lessons  ?  Is  it 
not  this :  In  estimating,  in  dealing  with  races, 
in  defining  what  their  supposedly  unchange- 
able characteristics  are,  in  planning  what  to 
do  with  them,  we  are  all  prone  to  confuse  the 
accidental  with  the  essential.  We  are  likely 
to  take  for  an  essential  race-characteristic 

29 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

what  is  a  transient  incident,  or  a  product  of 
special  social  conditions.  We  are  disposed  to 
view  as  a  fatal  and  overwhelming  race-problem 
what  is  a  perfectly  curable  accident  of  our 
present  form  of  administration.  If  we  are 
indeed  of  a  superior  race  ourselves,  we  shall, 
however,  best  prove  the  fact  by  learning  to 
distinguish  the  accidental  from  the  essential 
in  our  relations  with  other  races.  I  speak 
with  no  lack  of  sympathy  for  the  genuine  and 
bitter  trials  of  our  Southern  brethren  when  I 
say  that  I  suppose  the  mistake  which  I  now 
point  out,  the  mistake  of  confusing  the  es- 
sential and  the  accidental,  is  the  mistake  that 
they  are  now  making  in  many  of  their  sincerest 
expressions  of  concern  over  their  race-problem. 
So  much  for  the  two  lessons  that  have  led 
me  to  the  present  discussion.  But  now  let 
me  pass  to  a  somewhat  wider  view  of  race- 
problems.  Let  me  ask  a  little  more  generally, 
What,  if  anything,  can  be  known  to  be  es- 
sential about  the  characteristics  of  a  race 
of  men  and  consequently  an  essentially  im- 
portant consideration  in  our  dealings  with 

30 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

alien  races?  Speaking  so  far  as  we  can, 
apart  from  prejudice,  what  can  we  say  about 
what  it  is  which  distinguishes  the  various 
races  of  men  from  one  another? 

V 

The  term  "race"  is  popularly  used  in  a  very 
vague  way.  The  newspapers  not  long  ago 
said,  during  trouble  in  Poland,  that  the  Rus- 
sian soldiers  then  in  Warsaw  showed  "race- 
antipathy"  in  their  conflicts  with  the  people. 
We  all  know,  however,  that  the  mutual  hatred 
of  Russians  and  Poles  is  due  mainly  to  political 
and  to  religious  causes.  Frenchmen  of  the 
northern  provinces,  who  are  anthropologically 
wholly  indistinguishable,  as  Professor  Ripley 
tells  us,  from  the  inhabitants  of  many  western 
German  districts,  still  have  what  they  call  a 
"  race-antipathy  "  for  the  men  across  the  border. 
Thus  almost  any  national  or  political  or 
religious  barrier,  if  it  is  old  enough,  may  lead 
to  a  consciousness  of  difference  of  race.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  are,  of  course,  unques- 
tionable physical  varieties  of  mankind,  dis- 
tinguished by  well-known  physical  contrasts. 

31 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

But  the  anthropologists  still  almost  hope- 
lessly disagree  as  to  what  the  accurate  classi- 
fication of  these  true  races  may  be.  Such  a 
classification,  however,  does  not  concern  us 
here.  We  are  now  interested  in  the  minds 
of  men.  We  want  to  know  what  the  races  of 
men  are  socially  good  for.  And  not  in  the 
study  of  skulls  or  of  hair,  or  of  skin  color, 
and  not  in  the  survey  of  all  these  bewildering 
complications  with  which  physical  anthro- 
pology deals,  shall  we  easily  find  an  answer 
to  our  more  practical  questions,  viz.,  to  our 
questions  regarding  the  way  in  which  these 
various  races  of  men  are  related  to  the  inter- 
ests of  civilization,  and  regarding  the  spirit 
in  which  we  ought  to  estimate  and  practically 
to  deal  with  these  racial  traits  of  mankind. 

For  after  all,  it  is  a  man's  mind,  rather 
than  his  skull,  or  his  hair,  or  his  skin,  that  we 
most  need  to  estimate.  And  if  hereupon  we 
ask  ourselves  just  how  these  physical  varieties 
of  the  human  stock,  just  how  these  shades  of 
color,  these  types  of  hair,  these  forms  of  skull, 
or  these  contours  of  body,  are  related  to  the 

32 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

mental  powers  and  to  the  moral  character- 
istics of  the  men  in  question,  then,  if  only  we 
set  prejudice  wholly  aside,  and  appeal  to 
science  to  help  us,  we  find  ourselves  in  the 
present  state  of  knowledge  almost  hopelessly 
at  sea.  We  know  too  little  as  yet  about  the 
natural  history  of  the  human  mind,  our  psy- 
chology is  far  too  infantile  a  science,  to  give 
us  any  precise  information  as  to  the  way  in 
which  the  inherited,  the  native,  the  constitu- 
tional aspects  of  the  minds  of  men  really  vary 
with  their  complexions  or  with  their  hair. 
Yet  that,  of  course,  is  just  what  we  most  want 
to  know.  It  is  easy  to  show  that  an  Austra- 
lian is  just  now  far  below  our  mental  level. 
But  how  far  is  his  degradation  due  to  the  in- 
herited and  unchangeable  characters  of  his 
race,  and  how  far  to  his  long  struggle  with 
the  dreary  desert?  How  far  is  he,  as  we  now 
find  him,  a  degenerate,  whose  ancestors  were 
on  some  far  higher  level  ?  In  other  words, 
is  his  type  of  mind  a  true  variety  of  the  human 
mind,  inbred  and  unchangeable?  How  far 
is  it,  so  to  speak,  a  mere  incident?  Upon 
D  33 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

what  level  were  the  minds  of  our  own  ances- 
tors in  the  early  stone  age  of  Europe?  How 
did  their  minds  then  compare  with  the  minds 
of  those  ancestors  of  the  Australian  who  were 
then  their  contemporaries?  Who  shall  an- 
swer such  questions?  Yet  just  such  ques- 
tions we  should  have  to  answer  before  we  could 
decide  upon  the  true  relations  of  race  and  of 
mind. 

To  be  sure,  anthropology  has  made  a 
beginning,  and  a  very  important  beginning, 
in  the  study  of  the  mental  types  of  primitive 
man.  By  various  comparative  and  arch- 
aeological methods  we  can  already  learn  a  good 
deal  about  the  minds  of  our  own  ancestors. 
We  can  also  study  various  races  as  they  are 
to-day.  We  know,  about  the  early  stages  of 
human  culture,  far  more  than  we  knew  a 
little  while  since.  But  one  result  may  forth- 
with be  stated  regarding  what  we  have  so  far 
learned  concerning  the  early  history  of  the 
human  mind,  whether  it  is  the  mind  of  our 
ancestors,  or  of  other  races.  Of  course,  we 
cannot  doubt  that,  just  as  now  we  widely 

34 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

differ  in  mental  life,  so  always  there  must  have 
been  great  contrasts  between  the  minds  of 
the  various  stocks  of  men.  No  doubt,  if 
the  science  of  man  were  exact,  it  would  indeed 
include  a  race-psychology.  But  my  present 
scepticism  concerns  the  present  state  of  science, 
and  the  result  of  such  study  as  we  have  yet 
made  of  the  racial  psychology  of  man  is  dis- 
tinctly disappointing  to  those  who  want  to 
make  their  task  easy  by  insisting  that  the 
physical  varieties  of  mankind  are  in  our 
present  state  of  knowledge  sufficient  guides 
to  an  interpretation  of  the  whole  inner  con- 
trast of  the  characters  and  of  the  mental 
processes  of  men.  For  what  anthropology 
thus  far  shows  us  is,  that,  so  soon  as  you  go 
back  beyond  those  stages  of  cultivation  where 
history  is  possible,  and  so  soon  as  you  view 
men  as  they  are  apart  from  the  higher  culture 
—  well,  then,  all  men,  so  far  as  we  can  yet 
study  them,  appear  to  us  not,  of  course,  the 
same  in  mind,  but  yet  surprisingly  alike  in 
their  minds,  in  their  morals,  and  in  their  arts. 
Widely  as  the  primitive  men  differ,  in  certain 

35 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

broad  features  they  remain,  for  our  present 
knowledge,  notably  similar.  And  these  com- 
mon features  are  such  as  are  by  no  means 
altogether  flattering  to  our  racial  pride,  when 
we  think  that  our  own  ancestors,  too,  were, 
not  very  long  since,  comparatively,  primitive 
men  like  the  rest. 

All  the  more  primitive  men,  namely,  are 
largely  alike  in  the  grossness  and  in  the  un- 
promising stupidity  of  their  superstitions, 
and  in  their  moral  defects  and  virtues.  Very 
many  of  them,  belonging  to  the  most  various 
races,  resemble  one  another  in  possessing 
customs  which  we  now,  for  the  most  part, 
profoundly  abhor,  and  which  we  are  at  pres- 
ent prone  to  view  as  characteristic  of  es- 
sentially debased  minds.  Such  customs  as 
cannibalism,  or  as  human  sacrifice,  or  as  the 
systematic  torturing  of  prisoners  of  war,  such 
horrors  as  those  of  the  witchcraft  from  whose 
bondage  Europeans  escaped  only  since  the 
seventeenth  century  —  such  things,  I  say, 
are  characteristic  of  no  one  race  of  men.  To 
surround  one's  life  with  a  confused  mass  of 

36 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

spiritual  horrors,  to  believe  in  ghosts,  or  in 
vampires,  in  demons,  in  magic,  in  witchcraft, 
and  in  hostile  gods  of  all  sorts,  to  tangle  up 
one's  daily  activities  in  a  net  of  superstitious 
customs,  to  waste  time  in  elaborate  incanta- 
tions, to  live  in  fantastic  terrors  of  an  unseen 
world,  to  be  terrified  by  tabus  of  all  kinds, 
so  that  numerous  sorts  of  useful  deeds  are 
superstitiously  forbidden,  to  narrate  impossible 
stories  and  believe  in  them,  to  live  in  filth,  to 
persecute,  to  resist  light,  to  fight  against 
progress,  to  be  mentally  slothful,  dull,  sen- 
suous, cruel,  to  be  the  prey  of  endless  foolish- 
ness, to  be  treacherous,  to  be  destructive  — 
well,  these  are  the  mental  traits  of  no  one  or 
two  races  of  men.  These  are  simply  the  com- 
mon evil,  traits  of  primitive  humanity,  traits  to 
which  our  own  ancestors  were  very  long  ago 
a  prey,  traits  against  which  civilized  man  has 
still  constantly  to  fight.  Any  frenzied  mob  of 
civilized  men  may  relapse  in  an  hour  to  the 
level  of  a  very  base  savagery.  All  the  re- 
ligions of  men,  without  exception,  and  how- 
ever lofty  the  heights  that  they  have  since 

37 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

climbed,  appear  to  have  begun  with  much  the 
same  chaos  of  weird  customs  and  of  unrea- 
sonable delusions.  Man's  mental  burdens 
have  thus  been,  in  all  races,  of  very  much  the 
same  sort,  except,  to  be  sure,  that  civilization, 
side  by  side  with  the  good  that  it  has  created, 
has  invented  some  new  mental  burdens,  such 
as  our  increasing  percentage  of  insanity  in 
recent  times  illustrates. 

The  souls  of  men,  then,  if  viewed  apart 
from  the  influences  of  culture,  if  viewed  as 
they  were  in  primitive  times,  are  by  no  means 
as  easy  to  classify  as  the  woolly-haired  and 
the  straight-haired  races  at  first  appear  to  be. 
If  you  study  the  thoughts  of  the  various 
peoples,  as  the  anthropologist  Bastian  has 
loved  to  mass  them  together  in  his  chaotic  and 
learned  monographs,  or  as  Fraser  has  sur- 
veyed some  of  them  in  his  "  Golden  Bough," 
well,  these  primitive  thoughts  appear,  in  all 
their  own  chaos,  and  in  all  their  vast  varieties 
of  detail,  to  be  the  outcome  not  of  racial 
differences  so  much  as  of  a  few  essentially 
human,  although  by  no  means  always  very 

38 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

lofty,  motives.  These  fundamental  motives 
appear,  with  almost  monotonous  regularity, 
in  the  superstitions,  the  customs,  the  legends, 
of  all  races.  Esquimaux  and  Australians, 
negroes  and  Scotch  Highlanders  of  former 
days,  ancient  Japanese  and  Hindoos,  Poly- 
nesians and  early  Greeks,  —  all  these  ap- 
pear side  by  side,  in  such  comparative 
studies  of  the  primitive  mind  of  man,  side 
by  side  as  brothers  in  error  and  in  ignorance, 
so  soon  as  you  proceed  to  study  by  the  com- 
parative method  their  early  magic,  their  old 
beliefs,  their  early  customs.  Yet  only  by 
such  a  study  could  you  hope  to  distinguish 
what  really  belongs  to  the  mind  of  a  race 
of  men,  as  distinct  from  what  belongs  to 
culture. 

If,  then,  it  is  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  man 
that  you  really  want  to  know,  you  will  find  it 
hard,  so  soon  as  you  leave  civilization  out  of 
account,  to  tell  what  the  precise  meaning  of  the 
term  "race  of  men"  is,  when  that  term  is 
conceived  as  characterizing  a  distinct  hered- 
itary variety  of  human  mental  constitution. 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

A  race-psychology  is  still   a   science   for   the 
future  to  discover. 

Perhaps,  however,  as  you  may  say,  I  have 
not  been  just,  in  this  very  summary  statement, 
to  what,  after  all,  may  prove  to  be  the  best 
test  of  the  true  racial  differences  amongst  the 
various  types  of  the  human  mind.  Some 
races,  namely,  have  proved  themselves  to 
be  capable  of  civilization.  Other  races  have 
stubbornly  refused  civilization,  or  have  re- 
mained helplessly  degraded  even  when  sur- 
rounded by  civilization.  Others  still  have 
perished  at  the  first  contact  with  civilization. 
The  Germanic  ancestors  of  the  present  west- 
ern Europeans  were  barbarians,  although  of 
a  high  type.  But  when  they  met  civilization, 
they  first  adopted,  and  then  improved  it. 
Not  so  was  it  with  the  Indians,  with  the  Poly- 
nesians. Here,  then,  is  the  test  of  a  true 
mental  difference  amongst  races.  Watch 
them  when  they  meet  civilization.  Do  they 
show  themselves  first  teachable  and  then 
originative?  Then  they  are  mentally  higher 
races.  Do  they  stagnate  or  die  out  in  the 

40 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

presence  of  civilization?  Then  they  are  of 
the  lower  types.  Such  differences,  you  will 
say,  are  deep  and  ineradicable,  like  the  differ- 
ences between  the  higher  and  the  lower  sorts 
of  individual  men.  And  such  differences 
will  enable  us  to  define  racial  types  of  mind. 
I  fully  agree  that  this  test  is  an  important 
one.  Unfortunately,  the  test  has  never  been 
so  fairly  applied  by  the  civilized  nations  of 
men  that  it  can  give  us  any  exact  results. 
Again,  the  facts  are  too  complex  to  be  esti- 
mated with  accuracy.  Our  Germanic  ances- 
tors accepted  civilization  when  they  met  with  it. 
Yes,  but  they  met  civilization  under  conditions 
peculiarly  favorable  to  their  own  education. 
They  had  been  more  or  less  remotely  in- 
fluenced by  its  existence,  centuries  before  they 
entered  the  field  of  history.  When  they 
entered  this  field,  they  met  civilization  first  as 
formidable  foes;  they  were  long  in  contact 
with  it  without  being  themselves  enslaved; 
and  then  later,  in  numerous  cases,  they  met 
civilization  as  conquerors,  who,  in  the  course 
of  their  very  efforts  to  conquer,  found  thus  the 

41 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

opportunity  and  later  something  of  the  leisure 
to  learn,  and  who  had  time  to  discover  by 
centuries  of  hard  experience,  how  great  were 
the  advantages  the  cultivation  of  the  Roman 
empire  had  to  offer  them.  But  suppose  that 
Caesar  in  the  first  century  B.C.  had  already 
had  the  opportunity  to  undertake  the  civiliza- 
tion of  Germany  by  means  of  our  own  modern 
devices.  Suppose  that  he  had  then  possessed 
unlimited  supplies  of  rum,  of  rifles,  and  of 
machine  guns.  Suppose  in  brief  that,  by  the 
aid  of  such  gentle  arts  as  we  now  often  use, 
he  had  very  greatly  abbreviated  the  period 
of  probation  and  of  schooling  that  was  open  to 
the  German  barbarians  to  learn  the  lessons  that 
the  cultivated  peoples  had  to  teach.  Suppose 
that  Roman  syndicates  had  been  ready  to 
take  possession,  at  once,  of  the  partly  depopu- 
lated lands  of  the  north,  and  to  keep  the  few 
surviving  natives  thenceforth  in  their  place,  by 
showing  them  how  cultivated  races  can  look 
down  upon  savage  folk.  Well,  in  that  case, 
the  further  history  of  civilization  might  have 
gone  on  without  the  aid  of  the  Germanic 

42 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

peoples.  The  latter  would  then  have  quickly 
proved  their  natural  inferiority  once  for  all. 
They  would  have  furnished  one  instance  more 
for  the  race-partisans  to  cite  in  order  to  show 
how  incapable  the  lower  races  are  of  ascending 
from  barbarism  to  civilization.  Dead  men 
not  only  tell  no  tales;  they  also,  strange  to 
say,  attend  no  schools,  and  learn  no  lessons. 
And  hereby  they  prove  themselves  in  the  eyes 
of  certain  students  of  race-questions  to  have 
been  always  of  a  much  lower  mental  type  than 
the  cultivated  men  who  killed  them.  Their 
surviving  descendants,  if  sufficiently  provided 
with  the  means  of  corruption,  and  if  suffi- 
ciently down-trodden,  may  remain  henceforth 
models  of  degradation.  For  man,  whatever 
his  race,  is  an  animal  that  you  unquestionably 
can  debase  to  whatever  level  you  please,  if 
you  only  have  power,  and  if  you  then  begin 
early  enough,  and  devote  yourself  persistently 
enough  to  the  noble  and  civilized  task  of  prov- 
ing him  to  be  debased. 

I  do  not  doubt,  then,  that  some  races  are 
more  teachable  than  others.     But  I  do  very 

43 


RACE   QUESTIONS  AND   PREJUDICES 

much  doubt  our  power  to  estimate  how 
teachable  a  race  is,  or  what  can  be  made  of 
them,  or  what  hereditary  mental  powers  they 
have  until  we  have  given  them  centuries  of 
opportunity  to  be  taught.  Fortune  and  the 
defects  of  the  Roman  Empire  gave  to  the 
Germanic  peoples  an  extraordinary  opportu- 
nity to  learn.  So  the  world  found  out  how 
teachable  they  were.  Let  their  descendants 
not  boast  unduly  until  they,  too,  have  given  to 
other  races,  not  indeed  the  opportunities  of 
conquerors,  but  some  equal  opportunity  to 
show  of  what  sort  of  manhood  they  are 
capable. 

Yet,  you  may  insist,  civilization  itself  had  an 
origin.  Were  not  the  races  that  first  won 
civilized  rank  superior  in  mental  type  to  those 
that  never  showed  themselves  capable  of  such 
originality?  Well,  I  reply,  we  do  not  know 
as  yet  precisely  where,  and  still  less  how, 
civilization  originated.  But  this  seems  clear, 
viz. :  first,  that  physical  environment  and  the 
forms  of  social  aggregation  which  this  environ- 
ment determined,  had  a  very  great  share  in 

44 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

making  the  beginnings  of  civilization  pos- 
sible; while,  secondly,  whatever  part  race- 
qualities  played  in  early  civilization,  certainly 
no  one  race  has  the  honor  of  beginning 
the  process.  Neither  Chinese  nor  Egyptian, 
neither  Caucasian  nor  Mongol,  was  the  sole 
originator  of  civilization.  The  African  of  the 
tropical  swamps  and  forests,  the  Australian 
of  the  desert,  the  Indian  of  our  prairies,  was 
sufficiently  prevented  by  his  physical  en- 
vironment from  being  the  originator  of  a 
great  civilization.  What  each  of  these  races 
would  have  done  in  another  environment, 
we  cannot  tell.  But  the  Indian  of  Central 
America,  of  Mexico,  and  of  Peru,  shows  us 
that  race  alone  did  not  predetermine  how 
remote  from  the  origination  of  a  higher  civili- 
zation a  stock  must  needs  remain.  Chinese 
civilization,  and,  in  recent  times,  Japanese 
civilization,  have  shown  us  that  one  need  not 
be  a  Caucasian  in  order  to  originate  a  higher 
type  of  wisdom. 

In  brief,  then,  there  is  hardly  any  one  thing 
that    our    actual    knowledge    of    the    human 

45 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

mind  enables  us  to  assert,  with  any  scientific 
exactness,  regarding  the  permanent,  the  hered- 
itary, the  unchangeable  mental  character- 
istics which  distinguish  even  the  most  widely 
sundered  physical  varieties  of  mankind.  There 
is,  to  be  sure,  one  exception  to  this  rule,  which 
is  itself  instructive.  It  is  the  case  where  we 
are  dealing  with  physical  and  social  degen- 
eracy, the  result  of  circumstances  and  of  en- 
vironment, and  where  such  degeneracy  has 
already  gone  so  far  that  we  have  before  us 
highly  diseased  human  types,  such  as  can  no 
longer  be  reclaimed.  But  such  types  are  not 
racial  types.  They  are  results  of  alcohol,  of 
infection,  or  in  some  instances,  of  the  long- 
continued  pressure  of  physical  environment. 
In  such  cases  we  can  sometimes  say,  Here  is 
a  hopelessly  degraded  stock  of  men.  But, 
then,  civilization  can  create  such  stocks,  out 
of  any  race  of  men,  by  means  of  a  sufficient 
amount  of  oppression  and  of  other  causes  of 
degradation,  if  continued  through  generations. 
No  race  of  men,  then,  can  lay  claim  to  a 
fixed  and  hereditary  type  of  mental  life  such 

46 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

as  we  can  now  know  with  exactness  to  be 
unchangeable.  We  do  not  scientifically  know 
what  the  true  racial  varieties  of  mental  type 
really  are.  No  doubt  there  are  such  varieties. 
The  judgment  day,  or  the  science  of  the  future, 
may  demonstrate  what  they  are.  We  are  at 
present  very  ignorant  regarding  the  whole 
matter. 

VI 

What,  then,  in  the  light  of  these  considera- 
tions, is  there  which  can  be  called  funda- 
mentally significant  about  our  numerous 
modern  •  race-problems  ?  I  answer,  scientifi- 
cally viewed,  these  problems  of  ours  turn  out  to 
be  not  so  much  problems  caused  by  anything 
which  is  essential  to  the  existence  or  to  the 
nature  of  the  races  of  men  themselves.  Our 
so-called  race-problems  are  merely  the  prob- 
lems caused  by  our  antipathies. 

Now,  the  mental  antipathies  of  men,  like 
the  fears  of  men,  are  every  elemental,  wide- 
spread, and  momentous  mental  phenomena. 
But  they  are  also  in  their  fundamental  nature 
extremely  capricious,  and  extremely  suggest- 

47 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

ible  mental  phenomena.  Let  an  individual 
man  alone,  and  he  will  feel  antipathies  for 
certain  other  human  beings  very  much  as 
any  young  child  does  —  namely,  quite  capri- 
ciously —  just  as  he  will  also  feel  all  sorts 
of  capricious  likings  for  people.  But  train 
a  man  first  to  give  names  to  his  antipathies, 
and  then  to  regard  the  antipathies  thus  named 
as  sacred  merely  because  they  have  a  name, 
and  then  you  get  the  phenomena  of  racial 
hatred,  of  religious  hatred,  of  class  hatred, 
and  so  on  indefinitely.  Such  trained  hatreds 
are  peculiarly  pathetic  and  peculiarly  de- 
ceitful, because  they  combine  in  such  a  subtle 
way  the  elemental  vehemence  of  the  hatred 
that  a  child  may  feel  for  a  stranger,  or  a  cat 
for  a  dog,  with  the  appearance  of  dignity  and 
solemnity  and  even  of  duty  which  a  name 
gives.  Such  antipathies  will  always  play  their 
part  in  human  history.  But  what  we  can  do 
about  them  is  to  try  not  to  be  fooled  by  them, 
not  to  take  them  too  seriously  because  of  their 
mere  name.  We  can  remember  that  they  are 
childish  phenomena  in  our  lives,  phenomena 

48 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

on  a  level  with  a  dread  of  snakes,  or  of  mice; 
phenomena  that  we  share  with  the  cats  and 
with  the  dogs,  not  noble  phenomena,  but 
caprices  of  our  complex  nature. 

Upon  the  theoretical  aspects  of  the  problem 
which  such  antipathies  present,  psychology 
can  already  throw  some  light.  Man,  as  a 
social  being,  needs  and  possesses  a  vast  range 
of  simply  elemental  tendencies  to  be  socially 
sensitive  when  in  the  presence  of  other  men. 
These  elemental  tendencies  appear,  more  or 
less  untrained,  in  the  bashfulness  of  child- 
hood, in  the  stage  fright  of  the  unskilled,  in 
the  emotional  disturbances  of  young  people 
who  are  finding  their  way  in  the  world,  in  the 
surprises  of  early  love,  in  the  various  sorts  of 
anthropophobia  which  beset  nervous  patients, 
in  the  antipathies  of  country  folk  toward 
strangers,  in  the  excitements  of  mobs,  in  count- 
less other  cases  of  social  stress  or  of  social 
novelty.  Such  sensitiveness  may  arise  in 
advance  of  or  apart  from  any  individual 
experience  which  gives  a  conscious  reason 
why  one  should  feel  thus.  A  common  feature 
v  49 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

of  all  such  experiences  is  the  fact  that  one 
human  being  finds  other  human  beings  to  be 
portentous,  even  when  the  socially  sensitive 
being  does  not  in  the  least  know  why  they 
should  be  so.  That  such  reactions  have  an 
instinctive  basis  is  unquestionable.  Their 
general  use  is  that  they  prepare  one,  through 
interest  in  men,  to  be  ready  for  social  training, 
and  to  be  submissively  plastic.  In  milder 
forms,  or  upon  the  basis  of  agreeable  social 
relations,  such  instinctive  emotions  easily  come 
to  be  moulded  into  the  most  fascinating  of 
human  interests ;  and  the  social  life  is  impos- 
sible without  this  basis  of  the  elemental 
concerns  which  man  feels  merely  because  of 
the  fact  that  other  men  are  there  in  his  world. 
If  decidedly  intense,  however,  such  instinc- 
tively determined  experiences  are  apt,  like 
other  intense  disturbances,  to  be  prevailingly 
painful.  And  since  novelty,  oddity,  and  lack 
of  social  training  on  the  part  of  the  subject  con- 
cerned are  motives  which  tend  to  make  such 
social  reflexes  intense,  a  very  great  number 
of  the  cruder  and  more  childish  social  re- 

50 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

actions  involve  antipathies ;  for  a  social  antip- 
athy is  merely  a  painful,  and  so,  in  general, 
an  overintense,  reflex  disturbance  in  the 
presence  of  another  human  being.  No  light 
need  be  thrown,  by  the  mere  occurrence  of 
such  an  antipathy,  upon  any  permanently 
important  social  character  of  the  hated  object. 
The  chance  intensity  of  the  passing  experience 
may  be  alone  significant.  And  any  chance 
association  may  serve  to  secure,  in  a  given 
case,  the  intensity  of  disturbance  which  makes 
the  object  hated.  Oddities  of  feature  or  of 
complexion,  slight  physical  variations  from 
the  customary,  a  strange  dress,  a  scar,  a  too 
steady  look,  a  limp,  a  loud  or  deep  voice,  any 
of  these  peculiarities,  in  a  stranger,  may  be, 
to  one  child,  or  nervous  subject,  or  other 
sensitive  observer,  an  object  of  fascinated 
curiosity;  to  another,  slightly  less  stable 
observer,  an  intense  irritation,  an  object  of 
terror,  or  of  violent  antipathy.  The  significant 
fact  is  that  we  are  all  instinctively  more  or 
less  sensitive  to  such  features,  simply  because 
we  are  by  heredity  doomed  to  be  interested 

51 


RACE  QUESTIONS  AND  PREJUDICES 

in  all  facts  which  may  prove  to  be  socially 
important.  Whether  we  are  fascinated,  or 
horror-stricken,  or  angry,  is,  apart  from 
training,  largely  a  matter  of  the  momentary 
subjective  intensity  of  the  disturbance. 

But  all  such  elemental  social  experiences  are 
ipso  facto,  highly  suggestible.  Our  social 
training  largely  consists  in  the  elimination  or 
in  the  intensification  or  in  the  systematizing 
of  these  original  reactions  through  the  influence 
of  suggestion  and  of  habit.  Hence  the  antip- 
athy, once  by  chance  aroused,  but  then  named, 
imitated,  insisted  upon,  becomes  to  its  victims 
a  sort  of  sacred  revelation  of  truth,  sacred 
merely  because  it  is  felt,  a  revelation  merely 
because  it  has  won  a  name  and  a  social  stand- 
ing. 

What  such  sacred  revelations,  however, 
really  mean,  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the 
hungry  traveller,  if  deprived  of  his  breakfast 
long  enough,  by  means  of  an  accidental  delay 
of  his  train,  or  the  tired  camper  in  the  forest, 
may  readily  come  to  feel  whatever  racial 
antipathy  you  please  toward  his  own  brother, 

52 


RACE   QUESTIONS   AND   PREJUDICES 

if  the  latter  then  wounds  social  susceptibilities 
which  the  abnormal  situation  has  made  mo- 
mentarily hypersesthetic. 

I  have  said  little  or  nothing,  in  this  paper, 
of  human  justice.  I  have  spoken  mainly 
of  human  illusions.  We  all  have  illusions, 
and  hug  them.  Let  us  not  sanctify  them  by 
the  name  of  science. 

For  my  part,  then,  I  am  a  member  of  the 
human  race,  and  this  is  a  race  which  is,  as  a 
whole,  considerably  lower  than  the  angels, 
so  that  the  whole  of  it  very  badly  needs  race- 
elevation.  In  this  need  of  my  race  I  per- 
sonally and  very  deeply  share.  And  it  is  in 
this  spirit  only  that  I  am  able  to  approach  our 
problem. 


53 


II 

PROVINCIALISM 


Ill 

PROVINCIALISM 

T  PROPOSE,  in  this  address,  to  define 
"^  certain  issues  which,  as  I  think,  the 
present  state  of  the  world's  civilization,  and 
of  our  own  national  life,  make  both  promi- 
nent and  critical. 

I 

The  word  "  provincialism,"  which  I  have 
used  as  my  title,  has  been  chosen  because  it 
is  the  best  single  word  that  I  have  been  able 
to  find  to  suggest  the  group  of  social  tenden- 
cies to  which  I  want  to  call  your  especial 
attention.  I  intend  to  use  this  word  in  a 
somewhat  elastic  sense,  which  I  may  at  once 
indicate.  When  we  employ  the  word  "  pro- 
vincialism "  as  a  concrete  term,  speaking  of 
"a  provincialism,"  we  mean,  I  suppose,  any 
social  disposition,  or  custom,  or  form  of 
speech  or  of  civilization,  which  is  especially 
characteristic  of  a  province.  In  this  sense 
one  speaks  of  the  provincialisms  of  the  local 

57 


PROVINCIALISM 

dialect  of  any  English  shire,  or  of  any  German 
country  district.  This  use  of  the  term  in 
relation  to  the  dialects  of  any  language  is 
very  common.  But  one  may  also  apply  the 
term  to  name,  not  only  the  peculiarities  of 
a  local  dialect,  but  the  fashions,  the  manners, 
and  customs  of  a  given  restricted  region  of 
any  country.  One  also  often  employs  the 
word  "  provincialism  "  as  an  abstract  term,  to 
name  not  only  the  customs  or  social  tenden- 
cies themselves,  but  that  fondness  for  them, 
that  pride  in  them,  which  may  make  the 
inhabitants  of  a  province  indisposed  to  con- 
form to  the  ways  of  those  who  come  from  with- 
out, and  anxious  to  follow  persistently  their 
own  local  traditions.  Thus  the  word  "  pro- 
vincialism "  applies  both  to  the  social  habits 
of  a  given  region,  and  to  the  mental  interest 
which  inspires  and  maintains  these  habits. 
But  both  uses  of  the  term  imply,  of  course, 
that  one  first  knows  what  is  to  be  meant  by 
the  word  "  province."  This  word,  however, 
is  one  of  an  especially  elastic  usage.  Some- 
times, by  a  province,  we  mean  a  region  as 

58 


PROVINCIALISM 

restricted  as  a  single  English  county,  or  as 
the  smallest  of  the  old  German  principalities. 
Sometimes,  however,  one  speaks  of  the  whole 
of  New  England,  or  even  of  the  Southern 
states  of  our  Union,  as  constituting  one  prov- 
ince; and  I  know  of  no  easy  way  of  defining 
how  large  a  province  may  be.  For  the  term, 
in  this  looser  sense,  stands  for  no  deter- 
minate political  or  legal  division  of  a  country. 
Meanwhile  we  all,  in  our  minds,  oppose  the 
term  "  province  "  to  the  term  "  nation,"  as  the 
part  is  opposed  to  the  whole.  Yet  we  also  often 
oppose  the  terms  "provincial"  and  "metropoli- 
tan," conceiving  that  the  country  districts  and 
the  smaller  towns  and  cities  belong  even  to  the 
province,  while  the  very  great  cities  belong 
rather  to  the  whole  country,  or  even  to  the 
world  in  general.  Yet  here  the  distinction 
that  we  make  is  not  the  same  as  the  former 
distinction  between  the  part  of  a  country  and 
the  whole  country.  Nevertheless,  the  ground 
for  such  an  identification  of  the  provincial 
with  that  which  pertains  to  country  districts 
and  to  smaller  cities  can  only  lie  in  the  sup- 

59 


PROVINCIALISM 

posed  tendency  of  the  great  city  to  represent 
better  the  interests  of  the  larger  whole  than 
do  the  lesser  communities.  This  suppo- 
sition, however,  is  certainly  not  altogether  well 
founded.  In  the  sense  of  possessing  local 
interests  and  customs,  and  of  being  limited 
to  ideas  of  their  own,  many  great  cities  are 
almost  as  distinctly  provincial  as  are  certain 
less  populous  regions.  The  plain  people  of 
London  or  of  Berlin  have  their  local  dialect; 
and  it  seems  fair  to  speak  of  the  peculiarities 
of  such  dialects  as  provincialisms.  And 
almost  the  same  holds  true  of  the  other  social 
traditions  peculiar  to  individual  great  cities. 
It  is  possible  to  find,  even  amongst  the  highly 
cultivated  classes  of  ancient  cities,  ideas  and 
fashions  of  behavior  as  characteristically 
local,  as  exclusive  in  their  indifference  to  the 
ways  of  outsiders,  as  are  the  similarly  char- 
acteristic ways  and  opinions  of  the  country 
districts  of  the  same  nationality.  And  so 
the  opposition  of  the  provincial  to  the  metro- 
politan, in  manners  and  in  beliefs,  seems  to 
me  much  less  important  than  the  other  oppo- 

60 


PROVINCIALISM 

sition  of  the  province,  as  the  more  or  less  re- 
stricted part,  to  the  nation  as  the  whole.  It 
is  this  latter  opposition  that  I  shall  therefore 
emphasize  in  the  present  discussion.  But 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  define  how  large  or 
how  well  organized,  politically,  a  province 
must  be.  For  my  present  purpose  a  county, 
a  state,  or  even  a  large  section  of  the  coun- 
try, such  as  New  England,  might  constitute 
a  province.  For  me,  then,  a  province  shall 
mean  any  one  part  of  a  national  domain, 
which  is,  geographically  and  socially,  suffi- 
ciently unified  to  have  a  true  consciousness 
of  its  own  unity,  to  feel  a  pride  in  its  own 
ideals  and  customs,  and  to  possess  a  sense 
of  its  distinction  from  other  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. And  by  the  term  "  provincialism"  I  shall 
mean,  first,  the  tendency  of  such  a  province 
to  possess  its  own  customs  and  ideals;  sec- 
ondly, the  totality  of  these  customs  and  ideals 
themselves;  and  thirdly,  the  love  and  pride 
which  leads  the  inhabitants  of  a  province  to 
cherish  as  their  own  these  traditions,  beliefs, 
and  aspirations. 

61 


PROVINCIALISM 

II 

I  have  defined  the  term  used  as  my  title. 
But  now,  in  what  sense  do  I  propose  to  make 
provincialism  our  topic?  You  will  foresee 
that  I  intend  to  discuss  the  worth  of  provin- 
cialism, i.e.  to  consider,  to  some  extent, 
whether  it  constitutes  a  good  or  an  evil  ele- 
ment in  civilization.  You  will  properly  ex- 
pect me,  therefore,  to  compare  provincialism 
with  other  social  tendencies;  such  tendencies 
as  patriotism,  the  larger  love  of  humanity, 
and  the  ideals  of  higher  cultivation.  Pre- 
cisely these  will  constitute,  in  fact,  the  special 
topics  of  my  address.  But  all  that  I  have  to 
say  will  group  itself  about  a  single  thesis, 
which  I  shall  forthwith  announce.  My  thesis 
is  that,  in  the  present  state  of  the  world's 
civilization,  and  of  the  life  of  our  own  country, 
the  time  has  come  to  emphasize,  with  a  new 
meaning  and  intensity,  the  positive  value, 
the  absolute  necessity  for  our  welfare,  of  a 
wholesome  provincialism,  as  a  saving  power 
to  which  the  world  in  the  near  future  will 
need  more  and  more  to  appeal. 

62 


PROVINCIALISM 

The  time  was  (and  not  very  long  since), 
when,  in  our  own  country,  we  had  to  contend 
against  very  grave  evils  due  to  false  forms 
of  provincialism.  What  has  been  called  sec- 
tionalism long  threatened  our  national  unity. 
Our  Civil  War  was  fought  to  overcome  the 
ills  due  to  such  influences.  There  was, 
therefore,  a  time  when  the  virtue  of  true 
patriotism  had  to  be  founded  upon  a  vigorous 
condemnation  of  certain  powerful  forms  of 
provincialism.  And  our  national  education 
at  that  time  depended  both  upon  our  learning 
common  federal  ideals,  and  upon  our  look- 
ing to  foreign  lands  for  the  spiritual  guid- 
ance of  older  civilizations.  Furthermore,  not 
only  have  these  things  been  so  in  the  past, 
but  similar  needs  will,  of  course,  be  felt  in 
the  future.  We  shall  always  be  required  to 
take  counsel  of  the  other  nations  in  company 
with  whom  we  are  at  work  upon  the  tasks 
of  civilization.  Nor  have  we  outgrown  our 
spiritual  dependence  upon  older  forms  of 
civilization.  In  fact  we  shall  never  outgrow 
a  certain  inevitable  degree  of  such  depend- 


PROVINCIALISM 

ence.  Our  national  unity,  moreover,  will 
always  require  of  us  a  devotion  that  will  tran- 
scend in  some  directions  the  limits  of  all  our 
provincial  ideas.  A  common  sympathy  be- 
tween the  different  sections  of  our  country 
will,  in  future,  need  a  constantly  fresh  cultiva- 
tion. Against  the  evil  forms  of  sectionalism 
we  shall  always  have  to  contend.  All  this 
I  well  know,  and  these  things  I  need  not  in 
your  presence  emphasize.  But  what  I  am 
to  emphasize  is  this:  The  present  state  of 
civilization,  both  in  the  world  at  large,  and 
with  us,  in  America,  is  such  as  to  define  a  new 
social  mission  which  the  province  alone,  but 
not  the  nation,  is  able  to  fulfil.  False  sec- 
tionalism, which  disunites,  will  indeed  always 
remain  as  great  an  evil  as  ever  it  was. 
But  the  modern  world  has  reached  a  point 
where  it  needs,  more  than  ever  before,  the 
vigorous  development  of  a  highly  organized 
provincial  life.  Such  a  life,  if  wisely  guided, 
will  not  mean  disloyalty  to  the  nation;  and 
it  need  not  mean  narrowness  of  spirit,  nor 
yet  the  further  development  of  jealousies 

64 


PROVINCIALISM 

between  various  communities.  What  it  will 
mean,  or  at  least  may  mean,  —  this,  so  far  as 
I  have  time,  I  wish  to  set  forth  in  the  follow- 
ing discussion.  My  main  intention  is  to  de- 
fine the  right  form  and  the  true  office  of 
provincialism,  —  to  portray  what,  if  you 
please,  we  may  well  call  the  Higher  Pro- 
vincialism, —  to  portray  it,  and  then  to  de- 
fend it,  to  extol  it,  and  to  counsel  you  to 
further  just  such  provincialism. 

Since  this  is  my  purpose,  let  me  at  once  say 
that  I  address  myself,  in  the  most  explicit 
terms,  to  men  and  women  who,  as  I  hope 
and  presuppose,  are  and  wish  to  be,  in  the 
wholesome  sense,  provincial.  Every  one,  as 
I  maintain,  ought,  ideally  speaking,  to  be 
provincial,  —  and  that  no  matter  how  culti- 
vated, or  humanitarian,  or  universal  in  pur- 
pose or  in  experience  he  may  be  or  may 
become.  If  in  our  own  country,  where  often 
so  many  people  are  still  comparative 
strangers  to  the  communities  in  which  they 
have  come  to  live,  there  are  some  of  us  who, 
like  myself,  have  changed  our  provinces  dur- 
»  65 


PROVINCIALISM 

ing  our  adult  years,  and  who  have  so  been 
unable  to  become  and  to  remain  in  the  sense 
of  European  countries  provincial;  and  if, 
moreover,  the  life  of  our  American  provinces 
everywhere  has  still  too  brief  a  tradition,  — 
all  that  is  our  misfortune,  and  not  our  ad- 
vantage. As  our  country  grows  in  social 
organization,  there  will  be,  in  absolute  meas- 
ure, more  and  not  less  provincialism  amongst 
our  people.  To  be  sure,  as  I  hope,  there  will 
also  be,  in  absolute  measure,  more  and  not 
less  patriotism,  closer  and  not  looser  national 
ties,  less  and  not  more  mutual  sectional  mis- 
understanding. But  the  two  tendencies,  the 
tendency  toward  national  unity  and  that 
toward  local  independence  of  spirit,  must 
henceforth  grow  together.  They  cannot 
prosper  apart.  The  national  unity  must  not 
kill  out,  nor  yet  hinder,  the  provincial  self- 
consciousness.  The  loyalty  to  the  Republic 
must  not  lessen  the  love  and  the  local  pride 
of  the  individual  community.  The  man  of 
the  future  must  love  his  province  more  than 
he  does  to-day.  His  provincial  customs  and 

66 


PROVINCIALISM 

ideals  must  be  more  and  not  less  highly  de- 
veloped, more  and  not  less  self-conscious, 
well-established,  and  earnest.  And  therefore, 
I  say,  I  appeal  to  you  as  to  a  company  of 
people  who  are,  and  who  mean  to  be,  pro- 
vincial as  well  as  patriotic,  —  servants  and 
lovers  of  your  own  community  and  of  its  ways, 
as  well  as  citizens  of  the  world.  I  hope  and 
believe  that  you  all  intend  to  have  your  com- 
munity live  its  own  life,  and  not  the  life  of 
any  other  community,  nor  yet  the  life  of  a 
mere  abstraction  called  humanity  in  general. 
I  hope  that  you  are  fully  aware  how  pro- 
vincialism, like  monogamy,  is  an  essential 
basis  of  true  civilization.  And  it  is  with  this 
presupposition  that  I  undertake  to  suggest 
something  toward  a  definition  and  defence 
of  the  higher  provincialism  and  of  its  office 
in  civilization. 

Ill 

With  this  programme  in  mind,  let  me  first 
tell  you  what  seem  to  me  to  be  in  our  mod- 
ern world,  and,  in  particular,  in  our  American 
world,  the  principal  evils  which  are  to  be  cor- 

67 


PROVINCIALISM 

rected  by  a  further  development  of  a  true 
provincial  spirit,  and  which  cannot  be  cor- 
rected without  such  a  development. 

The  first  of  these  evils  I  have  already  men- 
tioned. It  is  a  defect  incidental,  partly  to 
the  newness  of  our  own  country,  but  partly 
also  to  those  world-wide  conditions  of  mod- 
ern life  which  make  travel,  and  even  a  change 
of  home,  both  attractive  and  easy  to  dwellers 
in  the  most  various  parts  of  the  globe.  In 
nearly  every  one  of  our  American  communi- 
ties, at  least  in  the  northern  and  in  the  western 
regions  of  our  country,  there  is  a  rather  large 
proportion  of  people  who  either  have  not 
grown  up  where  they  were  born,  or  who  have 
changed  their  dwelling-place  in  adult  years. 
I  can  speak  all  the  more  freely  regarding  this 
class  of  our  communities,  because,  in  my  own 
community,  I  myself,  as  a  native  of  California, 
now  resident  in  New  England,  belong  to  such 
a  class.  Such  classes,  even  in  modern  New 
England,  are  too  large.  The  stranger,  the 
sojourner,  the  newcomer,  is  an  inevitable 
factor  in  the  life  of  most  American  communi- 


PROVINCIALISM 

ties.  To  make  him  welcome  is  one  of  the 
most  gracious  of  the  tasks  in  which  our  people 
have  become  expert.  To  give  him  his  fair 
chance  is  the  rule  of  our  national  life.  But 
it  is  not  on  the  whole  well  when  the  affairs  of 
a  community  remain  too  largely  under  the 
influence  of  those  who  mainly  feel  either  the 
wanderer's  or  the  new  resident's  interest  in 
the  region  where  they  are  now  dwelling.  To 
offset  the  social  tendencies  due  to  such  fre- 
quent changes  of  dwelling-place  we  need  the 
further  development  and  the  intensification 
of  the  community  spirit.  The  sooner  the  new 
resident  learns  to  share  this  spirit,  the  better 
for  him  and  for  his  community.  A  sound 
instinct,  therefore,  guides  even  our  newer 
communities,  in  the  more  fortunate  cases,  to 
a  rapid  development  of  such  a  local  senti- 
ment as  makes  the  stranger  feel  that  he  must 
in  due  measure  conform  if  he  would  be  per- 
manently welcome,  and  must  accept  the  local 
spirit  if  he  is  to  enjoy  the  advantages  of  his 
community.  As  a  Californian  I  have  been 
interested  to  see  both  the  evidences  and  the 


PROVINCIALISM 

nature  of  this  rapid  evolution  of  the  genuine 
provincial  spirit  in  my  own  state.  How 
swiftly,  in  that  country,  the  Californians  of 
the  early  days  seized  upon  every  suggestion 
that  could  give  a  sense  of  the  unique  impor- 
tance of  their  new  provincial  life.  The  asso- 
ciations that  soon  clustered  about  the  tales  of 
the  life  of  Spanish  missionaries  and  Mexican 
colonists  in  the  years  before  1846,  —  these 
our  American  Californians  cherished  from 
the  outset.  This,  to  us  often  half-legendary 
past,  gave  us  a  history  of  our  own.  The 
wondrous  events  of  the  early  mining  life,  — 
how  earnestly  the  pioneers  later  loved  to  re- 
hearse that  story ;  and  how  proud  every  young 
Californian  soon  became  of  the  fact  that  his 
father  had  had  his  part  therein.  Even  the 
Californian's  well-known  and  largely  justified 
glorification  of  his  climate  was,  in  his  own 
mind,  part  of  the  same  expression  of  his  ten- 
dency to  idealize  whatever  tended  to  make 
his  community,  and  all  its  affairs,  seem  unique, 
beloved,  and  deeply  founded  upon  some  sig- 
nificant natural  basis.  Such  a  foundation 

70 


PROVINCIALISM 

was,  indeed,  actually  there;  nature  had, 
indeed,  richly  blessed  his  land;  but  the  real 
interest  that  made  one  emphasize  and  idealize 
ail  these  things,  often  so  boastfully,  was  the 
interest  of  the  loyal  citizen  in  finding  his  com- 
munity an  object  of  pride.  Now  you,  who 
know  well  your  own  local  history,  will  be  able 
to  observe  the  growth  amongst  you  of  this  ten- 
dency to  idealize  your  past,  to  glorify  the 
bounties  that  nature  has  showered  upon  you, 
all  in  such  wise  as  to  give  the  present  life  of 
your  community  more  dignity,  more  honor, 
more  value  in  the  eyes  of  yourselves  and  of 
strangers.  In  fact,  that  we  all  do  thus  glorify 
our  various  provinces,  we  well  know;  and 
with  what  feelings  we  accompany  the  process, 
we  can  all  observe  for  ourselves.  But  it  is 
well  to  remember  that  the  special  office,  the 
principal  use,  the  social  justification,  of  such 
mental  tendencies  in  ourselves  lies  in  the  aid 
that  they  give  us  in  becoming  loyal  to  our 
community,  and  in  assimilating  to  our  own 
social  order  the  strangers  that  are  within  our 
gates.  It  is  the  especial  art  of  the  colonizing 

71 


PROVINCIALISM 

peoples,  such  as  we  are,  and  such  as  the  Eng- 
lish are,  to  be  able  by  devices  of  this  sort 
rapidly  to  build  up  in  their  own  minds  a  pro- 
vincial loyalty  in  a  new  environment.  The 
French,  who  are  not  a  colonizing  people, 
seem  to  possess  much  less  of  this  tendency. 
The  Chinese  seem  to  lack  it  almost  altogether. 
Our  own  success  as  possessors  of  new  lands 
depends  upon  this  one  skill  in  making  the  new 
lands  where  we  came  to  dwell  soon  seem  to  us 
glorious  and  unique.  I  was  much  impressed, 
some  years  ago,  during  a  visit  to  Australia 
and  New  Zealand,  with  the  parallel  devel- 
opments in  the  Australasian  colonies.  They 
too  have  already  their  glorious  past  history, 
their  unique  fortunes,  their  romances  of  the 
heroic  days,  —  and,  in  consequence,  their 
provincial  loyalty  and  their  power  to  assimi- 
late their  newcomers.  So  learn  to  view  your 
new  community  that  every  stranger  who 
enters  it  shall  at  once  feel  the  dignity  of  its 
past,  and  the  unique  privilege  that  is  offered 
to  him  when  he  is  permitted  to  belong  to  its 
company  of  citizens,  —  this  is  the  first  rule 

72 


PROVINCIALISM 

of  the  people  of  every  colonizing  nation  when 
they  found  a  new  province. 

Thus,  then,  I  have  pointed  out  the  first  evil 
with  which  our  provincialism  has  to  deal  — 
the  evil  due  to  the  presence  of  a  considerable 
number  of  not  yet  assimilated  newcomers  in 
most  of  our  communities.  The  newcomers 
themselves  are  often  a  boon  and  welcome  in- 
deed. But  their  failure  to  be  assimilated 
constitutes,  so  long  as  it  endures,  a  source  of 
social  danger,  because  the  community  needs 
well-knit  organization.  We  meet  this  danger 
by  the  development  of  a  strong  provincial 
spirit  amongst  those  who  already  constitute 
the  centralized  portion  of  the  community. 
For  thus  a  dignity  is  given  to  the  social  order 
which  makes  the  newcomer  long  to  share  in  its 
honors  by  deserving  its  confidence.  But  this 
aspect  of  provincialism,  this  usefulness  of  local 
pride,  is  indeed  the  best  known  aspect  of  my 
topic.  I  pass  at  once  to  the  less  frequently 
recognized  uses  of  the  provincial  spirit,  by 
mentioning  the  second  of  the  evils  with  which 
a  wise  provincialism  is  destined  to  contend. 

73 


PROVINCIALISM 

IV 

This  second  modern  evil  arises  from,  and 
constitutes,  one  aspect  of  the  levelling  ten- 
dency of  recent  civilization.  That  such  a 
levelling  tendency  exists,  most  of  us  recognize. 
That  it  is  the  office  of  the  province  to  contend 
against  some  of  the  attendant  evils  of  this  ten- 
dency, we  less  often  observe.  By  the  level- 
ling tendency  in  question  I  mean  that  aspect 
of  modern  civilization  which  is  most  obvi- 
ously suggested  by  the  fact  that,  because  of 
the  ease  of  communication  amongst  distant 
places,  because  of  the  spread  of  popular  edu- 
cation, and  because  of  the  consolidation  and 
of  the  centralization  of  industries  and  of 
social  authorities,  we  tend  all  over  the  nation, 
and,  in  some  degree,  even  throughout  the 
civilized  world,  to  read  the  same  daily  news, 
to  share  the  same  general  ideas,  to  submit  to 
the  same  overmastering  social  forces,  to  live 
in  the  same  external  fashions,  to  discourage 
individuality,  and  to  approach  a  dead  level 
of  harassed  mediocrity.  One  of  the  most 

74 


PROVINCIALISM 

marked  of  all  social  tendencies  is  in  any  age 
that  toward  the  mutual  assimilation  of  men 
in  so  far  as  they  are  in  social  relations  with  one 
another.  One  of  the  strongest  human  pre- 
dispositions is  that  toward  imitation.  But 
our  modern  conditions  have  greatly  favored 
the  increase  of  the  numbers  of  people  who 
read  the  same  books  and  newspapers,  who 
repeat  the  same  phrases,  who  follow  the  same 
social  fashions,  and  who  thus,  in  general,  imi- 
tate one  another  in  constantly  more  and  more 
ways.  The  result  is  a  tendency  to  crush  the 
individual.  Furthermore  there  are  modern 
economic  and  industrial  developments,  too 
well  known  to  ail  of  you  to  need  any  detailed 
mention  here,  which  lead  toward  similar 
results.  The  independence  of  the  small 
trader  or  manufacturer  becomes  lost  in  the 
great  commercial  or  industrial  combination. 
The  vast  corporation  succeeds  and  displaces 
the  individual.  Ingenuity  and  initiative  be- 
come subordinated  to  the  discipline  of  an 
impersonal  social,  order.  And  each  man, 
becoming,  like  his  fellow,  the  servant  of  mas- 

75 


PROVINCIALISM 

ters  too  powerful  for  him  to  resist,  and  too 
complex  in  their  undertakings  for  him  to 
understand,  is,  in  so  far,  disposed  unobtru- 
sively to  conform  to  the  ways  of  his  in- 
numerable fellow-servants,  and  to  lose  all 
sense  of  his  unique  moral  destiny  as  an  in- 
dividual. 

I  speak  here  merely  of  tendencies.  As 
you  know,  they  are  nowhere  unopposed  ten- 
dencies. Nor  do  I  for  an  instant  pretend  to 
call  even  these  levelling  tendencies  wholly,  or 
principally,  evil.  But  for  the  moment  I  call 
attention  to  what  are  obviously  questionable, 
and  in  some  degree  are  plainly  evil,  aspects 
of  these  modern  tendencies.  Imitation  is  a 
good  thing.  All  civilization  depends  upon 
it.  But  there  may  be  a  limit  to  the  number  of 
people  who  ought  to  imitate  precisely  the  same 
body  of  ideas  and  customs.  For  imitation  is 
not  man's  whole  business.  There  ought  to 
be  some  room  left  for  variety.  Modern  con- 
ditions have  often  increased  too  much  what 
one  might  call  the  purely  mechanical  carrying- 
power  of  certain  ruling  social  influences. 

76 


PROVINCIALISM 

There  are  certain  metropolitan  newspapers, 
for  instance,  which  have  far  too  many  readers 
for  the  good  of  the  social  order  in  which  they 
circulate.  These  newspapers  need  not  al- 
ways be  very  mischievous  ones.  But  when 
read  by  too  vast  multitudes,  they  tend  to  pro- 
duce a  certain  monotonously  uniform  trivi- 
ality of  mind  in  a  large  proportion  of  our 
city  and  suburban  population.  It  would  be 
better  if  the  same  readers  were  divided  into 
smaller  sections,  which  read  different  news- 
papers, even  if  these  papers  were  of  no  higher 
level.  For  then  there  would  at  least  be  a 
greater  variety  in  the  sorts  of  triviality  which 
from  day  to  day  occupied  their  minds.  And 
variety  is  the  beginning  of  individual  inde- 
pendence of  insight  and  of  conviction.  As  for 
the  masses  of  people  who  are  under  the  domi- 
nation of  the  great  corporations  that  employ 
them,  I  ana  here  not  in  the  least  dwelling 
upon  their  economic  difficulties.  I  am  point- 
ing out  that  the  lack  of  initiative  in  their 
lives  tends  to  make  their  spiritual  range 
narrower.  They  are  too  little  disposed  to 

77 


PROVINCIALISM 

create  their  own  world.  Now  every  man  who 
gets  into  a  vital  relation  to  God's  truth  be- 
comes, in  his  own  way,  a  creator.  And  if 
you  deprive  a  man  of  all  incentive  to  create, 
you  in  so  far  tend  to  cut  him  off  from  God's 
truth.  Or,  in  more  common  language,  in- 
dependence of  spirit  flourishes  only  when  a 
man  at  least  believes  that  he  has  a  chance  to 
change  his  fortunes  if  he  persistently  wills  to 
do  so.  But  the  servant  of  some  modern 
forms  of  impersonal  social  organization  tends 
to  lose  this  belief  that  he  has  a  chance.  Hence 
he  tends  to  lose  independence  of  spirit. 

Well,  this  is  the  second  of  the  evils  of  the 
modern  world  which,  as  I  have  said,  pro- 
vincialism may  tend  to  counteract.  Local 
spirit,  local  pride,  provincial  independence, 
influence  the  individual  man  precisely  because 
they  appeal  to  his  imitative  tendencies.  But 
thereby  they  act  so  as  to  render  him  more  or 
less  immune  in  presence  of  the  more  trivial 
of  the  influences  that,  coming  from  without 
his  community,  would  otherwise  be  likely  to 
reduce  him  to  the  dead  level  of  the  customs 

78 


PROVINCIALISM 

of  the  whole  nation.  A  country  district  may 
seem  to  a  stranger  unduly  crude  in  its  ways; 
but  it  does  not  become  wiser  in  case,  under 
the  influence  of  city  newspapers  and  of  summer 
boarders,  it  begins  to  follow  city  fashions 
merely  for  the  sake  of  imitating.  Other 
things  being  equal,  it  is  better  in  proportion 
as  it  remains  self-possessed,  —  proud  of  its 
own  traditions,  not  unwilling  indeed  to  learn, 
but  also  quite  ready  to  teach  the  stranger  its 
own  wisdom.  And  in  similar  fashion  provin- 
cial pride  helps  the  individual  man  to  keep 
his  self-respect  even  when  the  vast  forces 
that  work  toward  industrial  consolidation, 
and  toward  the  effacement  of  individual 
initiative,  are  besetting  his  life  at  every  turn. 
For  a  man  is  in  large  measure  what  his  social 
consciousness  makes  him.  Give  him  the 
local  community  that  he  loves  and  cherishes, 
that  he  is  proud  to  honor  and  to  serve,  — 
make  his  ideal  of  that  community  lofty,  —  give 
him  faith  in  the  dignity  of  his  province,  —  and 
you  have  given  him  a  power  to  counteract  the 
levelling  tendencies  of  modern  civilization. 

79 


PROVINCIALISM 


The  third  of  the  evils  with  which  a  wise 
provincialism  must  contend  is  closely  con- 
nected with  the  second.  I  have  spoken  of 
the  constant  tendency  of  modern  life  to  the 
mutual  assimilation  of  various  parts  of  the 
social  order.  Now  this  assimilation  may  oc- 
cur slowly  and  steadily,  as  in  great  measure 
it  normally  does;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
may  take  more  sudden  and  striking  forms,  at 
moments  when  the  popular  mind  is  excited, 
when  great  emotions  affect  the  social  order. 
At  such  times  of  emotional  disturbance,  so- 
ciety is  subject  to  tendencies  which  have 
recently  received  a  good  deal  of  psychological 
study.  They  are  the  tendencies  to  constitute 
what  has  often  been  called  the  spirit  of  the 
crowd  or  of  the  mob.  Modern  readers  of 
the  well-known  book  of  Le  Bon's  on  "The 
Crowd "  well  know  what  the  tendencies  to 
which  I  refer  may  accomplish.  It  is  true  that 
the  results  of  Le  Bon  are  by  no  means  wholly 
acceptable.  It  is  true  that  the  psychology  of 

80 


PROVINCIALISM 

large  social  masses  is  still  insufficiently  under- 
stood, and  that  a  great  many  hasty  statements 
have  been  made  about  the  fatal  tendency  of 
great  companies  of  people  to  go  wrong.  Yet 
in  the  complex  world  of  social  processes 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such 
processes  as  the  ones  which  Le  Bon  charac- 
terizes. The  mob-spirit  is  a  genuine  psy- 
chological fact  which  occasionally  becomes 
important  in  the  life  of  all  numerous  com- 
munities. Moreover,  the  mob-spirit  is  no  new 
thing.  It  has  existed  in  some  measure  from 
the  very  beginning  of  social  life.  But  there 
are  certain  modern  conditions  which  tend  to 
give  the  mob-spirit  new  form  and  power, 
and  to  lead  to  new  social  dangers  that 
are  consequent  upon  the  presence  of  this 
spirit. 

I  use  the  term  "  mob-spirit "  as  an  abbrevi- 
ation for  a  very  large  range  of  phenomena, 
phenomena  which  may  indeed  be  classed 
with  all  the  rest  of  the  imitative  phenomena 
as  belonging  to  one  genus.  But  the  mob- 
phenomena  are  distinguished  from  the  other 
o  81 


PROVINCIALISM 

imitative  phenomena  by  certain  character- 
istic emotional  tendencies  which  belong  to 
excited  crowds  of  people,  and  which  do  not 
belong  to  the  more  strictly  normal  social 
activities.  Man,  as  an  imitative  animal,  natu- 
rally tends,  as  we  have  seen,  to  do  what- 
ever his  companions  do,  so  long  as  he  is  not 
somehow  aroused  to  independence  and  to 
individuality.  Accordingly,  he  easily  shares 
the  beliefs  and  temperaments  of  those  who  are 
near  enough  to  him  to  influence  him.  But 
now  suppose  a  condition  of  things  such  as  may 
readily  occur  in  any  large  group  of  people 
who  have  somehow  come  to  feel  strong  sym- 
pathy with  one  another,  and  who  are  for  any 
reason  in  a  relatively  passive  and  impres- 
sible state  of  mind.  In  such  a  company  of 
people  let  any  idea  which  has  a  strong  emo- 
tional coloring  come  to  be  suggested,  by  the 
words  of  the  leader,  by  the  singing  of  a  song, 
by  the  beginning  of  any  social  activity  that 
does  not  involve  clear  thinking,  that  does  not 
call  upon  a  man  to  assert  his  owrn  independence. 
Such  an  idea  forthwith  tends  to  take  pos- 

82 


PROVINCIALISM 

session  in  an  extraordinarily  strong  degree  of 
every  member  of  the  social  group  in  question. 
As  a  consequence,  the  individual  may  come 
to  be,  as  it  were,  hypnotized  by  his  social 
group.  He  may  reach  a  stage  where  he  not 
merely  lacks  a  disposition  to  individual  initi- 
ative, but  becomes  for  the  time  simply  unable 
to  assert  himself,  to  think  his  own  thoughts, 
or  even  to  remember  his  ordinary  habits 
and  principles  of  conduct.  His  judgment 
for  the  time  becomes  one  with  that  of  the 
mass.  He  may  not  himself  observe  this  fact. 
Like  the  hypnotized  subject,  the  member  of 
the  excited  mob  may  feel  as  if  he  were  very 
independently  expressing  himself.  He  may 
say:  "This  idea  is  my  own  idea,"  when  as  a 
fact  the  ruling  idea  is  suggested  by  the  leaders 
of  the  mob,  or  even  by  the  accident  of  the 
momentary  situation.  The  individual  may 
be  led  to  acts  of  which  he  says:  "These 
things  are  my  duty,  my  sacred  privilege,  my 
right,"  when  as  a  fact  the  acts  in  question 
are  forced  upon  him  by  the  suggestions  of 
the  social  mass  of  which  at  the  instant  he  is 

83 


PROVINCIALISM 

merely  a  helpless  member.  As  the  hypno- 
tized subject,  again,  thinks  his  will  free  when 
an  observer  can  see  that  he  is  obliged  to  follow 
the  suggestions  of  the  iiypnotizer,  so  the  mem- 
ber of  the  mob  may  feel  all  the  sense  of  pure 
initiative,  although  as  a  fact  he  is  in  bondage 
to  the  will  of  another,  to  the  motives  of  the 
moment. 

All  such  phenomena  are  due  to  very  deep- 
seated  and  common  human  tendencies.  It 
is  no  individual  reproach  to  any  one  of  us 
that,  under  certain  conditions,  he  would  lose 
his  individuality  and  become  the  temporary 
prey  of  the  mob-spirit.  Moreover,  by  the 
word  "mob"  itself,  or  by  the  equivalent  word 
"crowd,"  I  here  mean  no  term  that  reflects 
upon  the  personal  characters  or  upon  the 
private  intelligence  of  the  individuals  who 
chance  to  compose  any  given  mob.  In  for- 
mer ages  when  the  defenders  of  aristocratic 
or  of  monarchical  institutions  used  to  speak 
with  contempt  of  the  mob,  and  oppose  to  the 
mob  the  enlightened  portion  of  the  com- 
munity, the  wise  who  ought  to  rule,  or  the 

84 


PROVINCIALISM 

people  whom  birth  and  social  position  se- 
cured against  the  defects  of  the  mob,  the  term 
was  used  without  a  true  understanding  of  the 
reason  why  crow^ds  of  people  are  upon  occa- 
sion disposed  to  do  things  that  are  less  in- 
telligent than  the  acts  of  normal  and  thought- 
ful people  would  be.  For  the  modern  student 
of  the  pyschology  of  crowds,  a  crowd  or  a  mob 
means  not  in  any  wise  a  company  of  wicked, 
of  debased,  or  even  of  ignorant  persons. 
The  term  means  merely  a  company  of  people 
who,  by  reason  of  their  sympathies,  have 
for  the  time  being  resigned  their  individual 
judgment.  A  mob  might  be  a  mob  of  saints 
or  of  cutthroats,  of  peasants  or  of  men  of 
science.  If  it  were  a  mob  it  would  lack  due 
social  wisdom  whatever  its  membership  might 
be.  For  the  members  of  the  mob  are  sympa- 
thizing rather  than  criticising.  Their  ruling 
ideas  then,  therefore,  are  what  Le  Bon  calls 
atavistic  ideas;  ideas  such  as  belong  to  earlier 
and  cruder  periods  of  civilization.  Opposed 
to  the  mob  in  which  the  good  sense  of  indi- 
viduals is  lost  in  a  blur  of  emotion,  and  in 

85 


PROVINCIALISM 

a  helpless  suggestibility,  —  opposed  to  the 
mob,  I  say,  is  the  small  company  of  thought- 
ful individuals  who  are  taking  counsel  to- 
gether. Now  our  modern  life,  with  its  vast 
unions  of  people,  with  its  high  development 
of  popular  sentiments,  with  its  passive  and 
sympathetic  love  for  knowing  and  feeling 
whatever  other  men  know  and  feel,  is  sub- 
ject to  the  disorders  of  larger  crowds,  of  more 
dangerous  mobs,  than  have  ever  before  been 
brought  into  sympathetic  union.  One  great 
problem  of  our  time,  then,  is  how  to  carry  on 
popular  government  without  being  at  the 
mercy  of  the  mob-spirit.  It  is  easy  to  give 
this  mob-spirit  noble  names.  Often  you  hear 
of  it  as  "grand  popular  enthusiasm."  Often 
it  is  highly  praised  as  a  loyal  party  spirit  or 
as  patriotism.  But  psychologically  it  is  the 
mob-spirit  whenever  it  is  the  spirit  of  a  large 
company  of  people  who  are  no  longer  either 
taking  calm  counsel  together  in  small  groups, 
or  obeying  an  already  established  law  or  cus- 
tom, but  who  are  merely  sympathizing  with 
one  another,  listening  to  the  words  of  leaders, 


PROVINCIALISM 

and  believing  the  large  print  headings  of  their 
newspapers.  Every  such  company  of  people 
is,  in  so  far,  a  mob.  Though  they  spoke  with 
the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  you  could 
not  then  trust  them.  Wisdom  is  not  in  them 
nor  in  their  mood.  However  highly  trained 
they  may  be  as  individuals,  their  mental 
processes,  as  a  mob,  are  degraded.  Their 
suffrages,  as  a  mob,  ought  not  to  count. 
Their  deeds  come  of  evil.  The  next  mob 
may  undo  their  work.  Accident  may  ren- 
der their  enthusiasm  relatively  harmless. 
But,  as  a  mere  crowd,  they  cannot  be  wise. 
They  cannot  be  safe  rulers.  Who,  then, 
are  the  men  who  wisely  think  and  rightly 
guide?  They  are,  I  repeat,  the  men  who 
take  counsel  together  in  small  groups,  who  re- 
spect one  another's  individuality,  who  mean- 
while criticise  one  another  constantly,  and 
earnestly,  and  who  suspect  whatever  the 
crowd  teaches.  In  such  men  there  need  be 
no  lack  of  wise  sympathy,  but  there  is  much 
besides  sympathy.  There  is  individuality,  and 
there  is  a  willingness  to  doubt  both  one 

87 


PROVINCIALISM 

another  and  themselves.  To  such  men,  and 
to  such  groups,  popular  government  ought 
to  be  intrusted. 

Now  these  principles  are  responsible  for 
the  explanation  of  the  well-known  contrast 
between  those  social  phenomena  which  illus- 
trate the  wisdom  of  the  enlightened  social 
order,  and  the  phenomena  which,  on  the  con- 
trary, often  seem  such  as  to  make  us  despair 
for  the  moment  of  the  permanent  success  of 
popular  government.  In  the  rightly  consti- 
tuted social  group  where  every  member  feels 
his  own  responsibility  for  his  part  of  the  social 
enterprise  which  is  in  hand,  the  result  of  the 
interaction  of  individuals  is  that  the  social 
group  may  show  itself  wiser  than  any  of  its 
individuals.  In  the  mere  crowd,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  social  group  may  be,  and 
generally  is,  more  stupid  than  any  of  its  indi- 
vidual members.  Compare  a  really  success- 
ful town  meeting  in  a  comparatively  small 
community  with  the  accidental  and  some- 
times dangerous  social  phenomena  of  a  street 
mob  or  of  a  great  political  convention.  In 

88 


PROVINCIALISM 

the  one  case  every  individual  may  gain  wis- 
dom from  his  contact  with  the  social  group. 
In  the  other  case  every  man  concerned,  if 
ever  he  comes  again  to  himself,  may  feel 
ashamed  of  the  absurdity  of  which  the  whole 
company  was  guilty.  Social  phenomena  of 
the  type  that  may  result  from  the  higher 
social  group,  the  group  in  which  individuality 
is  respected,  even  while  social  loyalty  is  de- 
manded, —  these  phenomena  may  lead  to 
permanent  social  results  which  as  tradition 
gives  them  a  fixed  character  may  gradually 
lead  to  the  formation  of  permanent  institu- 
tions, in  which  a  wisdom  much  higher  than 
that  of  any  individual  man  may  get  em- 
bodied. A  classic  instance  of  social  phe- 
nomena of  this  type,  and  of  the  results  of 
such  social  activities  as  constantly  make  use 
of  individual  skill,  we  find  in  language. 
However  human  language  originated,  it  is 
certain  that  it  was  never  the  product  of 
the  mob-spirit.  Language  has  been  formed 
through  the  efforts  of  individuals  to  communi- 
cate with  other  individuals.  Human  speech 


PROVINCIALISM 

is,  therefore,  in  its  structure,  in  its  devices,  in 
its  thoughtful  ness,  essentially  the  product  of 
the  social  activities  of  comparatively  small 
groups  of  persons  whose  ingenuity  was  con- 
stantly aroused  by  the  desire  of  making  some 
form  of  social  cooperation  definite,  and  some 
form  of  communication  amongst  individuals 
effective.  The  consequence  is  that  the  lan- 
guage of  an  uncultivated  people,  who  have 
as  yet  no  grammarians  to  guide  them  and  no 
literature  to  transmit  the  express  wisdom  of 
individual  guides  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, may,  nevertheless,  be  on  the  whole  much 
more  intelligent  than  is  any  individual  that 
speaks  the  language. 

Other  classic  instances  of  social  processes 
wherein  the  group  appears  wiser  than  the 
individual  are  furnished  to  us  by  the  processes 
that  resulted  through  centuries  of  develop- 
ment in  the  production  of  the  system  of 
Roman  law  or  of  the  British  constitution. 
Such  institutions  embody  more  wisdom  than 
any  individual  who  has  taken  part  in  the 
production  of  these  institutions  has  everpos- 

90 


PROVINCIALISM 

sessed.  Now  the  common  characteristic  of 
all  such  social  products  seems  to  me  to  be  due 
to  the  fact  that  the  social  groups  in  which 
they  originated  were  always  such  as  encour- 
aged and  as  in  fact  necessitated  an  emphasis 
upon  the  contrasts  between  various  indi- 
viduals. In  such  groups  what  Tarde  has 
called  "the  universal  opposition"  has  always 
been  an  effective  motive.  The  group  has 
depended  upon  the  variety  and  not  the  uni- 
formity of  its  members.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  other  sort  of  social  group,  the  mob,  has 
depended  upon  the  emotional  agreement, 
the  sympathy,  of  its  members.  It  has  been 
powerful  only  in  so  far  as  they  forgot  who 
they  individually  were,  and  gave  themselves 
up  to  the  suggestions  of  the  moment. 

It  follows  that  if  we  are  to  look  for  the 
source  of  the  greatest  dangers  of  popular  gov- 
ernment, we  must  expect  to  find  them  in  the 
influence  of  the  mob-spirit.  Le  Bon  is  right 
when  he  says  that  the  problem  of  the  future 
will  become  more  and  more  the  problem 
how  to  escape  from  the  domination  of  the 

91 


PROVINCIALISM 

crowd.  Now  I  do  not  share  Le  Bon's  pessi- 
mism when  he  holds,  as  he  seems  to  do,  that 
all  popular  government  necessarily  involves 
the  tendency  to  the  prevalence  of  the  mob- 
spirit.  So  far  as  I  can  see  Le  Bon  and  most 
of  the  other  writers  who  in  recent  times  have 
laid  so  much  stress  upon  the  dangers  of  the 
mob,  have  ignored,  or  at  least  have  greatly 
neglected,  that  other  social  tendency,  that 
tendency  to  the  formation  of  smaller  social 
groups,  which  makes  use  of  the  contrasts  of 
individuals,  and  w^hich  leads  to  a  collective 
wisdom  greater  than  any  individual  wisdom. 
But  why  I  do  insist  upon  this  is  that  the  prob- 
lem of  the  future  for  popular  government 
must  involve  the  higher  development,  the 
better  organization,  the  more  potent  influence, 
of  the  social  groups  of  the  wiser  type,  and  the 
neutralization  through  their  influence  of  the 
power  of  the  mob-spirit.  Now  the  modern 
forms  of  the  mob-spirit  have  become  so  por- 
tentous because  of  a  tendency  that  is  in  itself 
very  good,  even  as  may  be  the  results  to  which 
it  often  leads.  This  tendency  is  that  toward 

92 


PROVINCIALISM 

a  very  wide  and  inclusive  human  sympathy, 
a  sympathy  which  may  be  as  undiscriminat- 
ing  as  it  often  is  kindly.  Sympathy,  how- 
ever, as  one  must  recollect,  is  not  necessarily 
even  a  kindly  tendency.  For  one  may  sym- 
pathize with  any  emotion,  —  for  instance, 
with  the  emotions  of  a  cruelly  ferocious  mob. 
Sympathy  itself  is  a  sort  of  neutral  basis 
for  more  rational  mental  development.  The 
noblest  structures  may  be  reared  upon  its 
soil.  The  basest  absurdities  may,  upon  occa- 
sion, seem  to  be  justified,  because  an  undis- 
criminating  sympathy  makes  them  plausible. 
Now  modern  conditions  have  certainly  tended, 
as  I  have  said,  to  the  spread  of  sympathy. 
Consider  modern  literature  with  its  disposi- 
tion to  portray  any  form  of  human  life,  how- 
ever ignoble  or  worthless,  or  on  the  other 
hand,  however  lofty  or  inspiring,  —  to  por- 
tray it  not  because  of  its  intrinsic  worth  but 
because  of  the  mere  fact  that  it  exists.  All 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  —  yes,  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  emotion,  however  irrational, 
have  their  hearing  in  the  world  of  art  to-day, 

93 


PROVINCIALISM 

win  their  expression,  charm  their  audience, 
get,  as  we  say,  their  recognition.  Never  were 
men  so  busy  as  now  with  the  mere  eagerness 
to  sympathize  with,  to  feel  whatever  is  the  lot 
of  any  portion  of  humanity.  Now,  as  I  have 
said,  this  spread  of  human  sympathy,  fur- 
thered as  it  is  by  all  the  means  at  the  disposal 
of  modern  science,  so  far  as  that  science  deals 
with  humanity,  is  a  good  thing  just  in  so  far 
as  it  is  a  basis  upon  which  a  rational  phi- 
lanthropy and  a  more  intelligent  social  or- 
ganization can  be  founded.  But  this  habit 
of  sympathy  disposes  us  more  and  more  to 
the  influence  of  the  mob.  When  the  time  of 
popular  excitement  comes,  it  finds  us  expert 
in  sharing  the  emotions  of  the  crowd,  but 
often  enervated  by  too  frequent  indulgence 
in  just  such  emotion.  The  result  is  that 
modern  mobs  are  much  vaster,  and  in  some 
respects  more  excitable  than  ever  they  were 
before.  The  psychological  conditions  of  the 
mob  no  longer  need  include  the  physical  pres- 
ence of  a  crowd  of  people  in  a  given  place. 
It  is  enough  if  the  newspapers,  if  the  theatre, 

94 


PROVINCIALISM 

if  the  other  means  of  social  communication, 
serve  to  transmit  the  waves  of  emotional  en- 
thusiasm. A  nation  composed  of  many  mill- 
ions of  people  may  fall  rapidly  under  the 
hypnotic  influence  of  a  few  leaders,  of  a  few 
fatal  phrases.  And  thus,  as  our  third  evil, 
we  have  not  only  the  general  levelling  ten- 
dency of  modern  social  life,  but  the  particular 
tendency  to  emotional  excitability  which  tends 
to  make  the  social  order,  under  certain  con- 
ditions, not  only  monotonous  and  unideal, 
but  actively  dangerous. 

Yet,  as  we  have  seen,  this  evil  is  not,  as  Le 
Bon  and  the  pessimists  would  have  it,  inherent 
in  the  very  fact  of  the  existence  of  a  social 
order.  There  are  social  groups  that  are  not 
subject  to  the  mob-spirit.  And  now  if  you 
ask  how  such  social  groups  are  nowadays  to 
be  fostered,  to  be  trained,  to  be  kept  alive  for 
the  service  of  the  nation,  I  answer  that  the 
place  for  fostering  such  groups  is  the  province, 
for  such  groups  flourish  under  conditions  that 
arouse  local  pride,  the  loyalty  to  one's  own 
community,  the  willingness  to  remember  one's 

95 


PROVINCIALISM 

own  ways  and  ideals,  even  at  the  moment 
when  the  nation  is  carried  away  by  some 
levelling  emotion.  The  lesson  would  then  be : 
Keep  the  province  awake,  that  the  nation  may 
be  saved  from  the  disastrous  hypnotic  slumber 
so  characteristic  of  excited  masses  of  mankind. 

IV 

I  have  now  reviewed  three  types  of  evils 
against  which  I  think  it  is  the  office  of  pro- 
vincialism to  contend.  As  I  review  these 
evils,  I  am  reminded  somewhat  of  the  famous 
words  of  Schiller  in  his  "Greeting  to  the  New 
Century,"  which  he  composed  at  the  outset 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  his  age,  which 
in  some  respects  was  so  analogous  to  our  own, 
despite  certain  vast  differences,  Schiller  found 
himself  overwhelmed  as  he  contemplated  the 
social  problem  of  the  moment  by  the  vast 
national  conflict,  and  the  overwhelming  forces 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  crushing  the  more 
ideal  life  of  his  nation,  and  of  humanity. 
With  a  poetic  despair  that  we  need  indeed  no 
longer  share,  Schiller  counsels  his  reader,  in 

96 


PROVINCIALISM 

certain  famous  lines,  to  flee  from  the  stress  of 
life  into  the  still  recesses  of  the  heart,  for,  as  he 
says,  beauty  lives  only  in  song,  and  freedom 
has  departed  into  the  realm  of  dreams.  Now 
Schiller  spoke  in  the  romantic  period.  We 
no  longer  intend  to  flee  from  our  social  ills 
to  any  realm  of  dreams.  And  as  to  the  re- 
cesses of  the  heart,  we  now  remember  that 
out  of  the  heart  are  the  issues  of  life.  But  so 
much  my  own  thesis  and  my  own  counsel 
would  share  in  common  with  Schiller's  words. 
I  should  say  to-day  that  our  national  unities 
have  grown  so  vast,  our  forces  of  social  con- 
solidation have  become  so  paramount,  the  re- 
sulting problems,  conflicts,  evils,  have  been  so 
intensified,  that  we,  too,  must  flee  in  the  pur- 
suit of  the  ideal  to  a  new  realm.  Only  this 
realm  is,  to  my  mind,  so  long  as  we  are  speak- 
ing of  social  problems,  a  realm  of  real  life.  It 
is  the  realm  of  the  province.  There  must 
we  flee  from  the  stress  of  the  now  too  vast  and 
problematic  life  of  the  nation  as  a  whole. 
There  we  must  flee,  I  mean,  not  in  the  sense 
of  a  cowardly  and  permanent  retirement,  but 
H  97 


PROVINCIALISM 

in  the  sense  of  a  search  for  renewed  strength, 
for  a  social  inspiration,  for  the  salvation  of 
the  individual  from  the  overwhelming  forces 
of  consolidation.  Freedom,  I  should  say, 
dwells  now  in  the  small  social  group,  and  has 
its  securest  home  in  the  provincial  life.  The 
nation  by  itself,  apart  from  the  influence  of 
the  province,  is  in  danger  of  becoming  an  in- 
comprehensible monster,  in  whose  presence 
the  individual  loses  his  right,  his  self-conscious- 
ness, and  his  dignity.  The  province  must 
save  the  individual. 

But,  you  may  ask,  in  what  way  do  I  con- 
ceive that  the  wise  provincialism  of  which  I 
speak  ought  to  undertake  and  carry  on  its 
task?  How  is  it  to  meet  the  evils  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking?  In  what  way  is  its  in- 
fluence to  be  exerted  against  them  ?  And 
how  can  the  province  cultivate  its  self-con- 
sciousness without  tending  to  fall  back  again 
into  the  ancient  narrowness  from  which  small 
communities  were  so  long  struggling  to  es- 
cape ?  How  can  we  keep  broad  humanity 
and  yet  cultivate  provincialism  ?  How  can 

98 


PROVINCIALISM 

we  be  loyally  patriotic,  and  yet  preserve  our 
consciousness  of  the  peculiar  and  unique 
dignity  of  our  own  community?  In  what 
form  are  our  wholesome  provincial  activities 
to  be  carried  on? 

I  answer,  of  course,  in  general  terms,  that 
the  problem  of  the  wholesome  provincial 
consciousness  is  closely  allied  to  the  problem 
of  any  individual  form  of  activity.  An  indi- 
vidual tends  to  become  narrow  when  he  is 
what  we  call  self-centred.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  philanthropy  that  is  not  founded  upon 
a  personal  loyalty  of  the  individual  to  his  own 
family  and  to  his  own  personal  duties  is  noto- 
riously a  worthless  abstraction.  We  love  the 
world  better  when  we  cherish  our  own  friends 
the  more  faithfully.  We  do  not  grow  in 
grace  by  forgetting  individual  duties  in  be- 
half of  remote  social  enterprises.  Precisely 
so,  the  province  will  not  serve  the  nation  best 
by  forgetting  itself,  but  by  loyally  emphasiz- 
ing its  own  duty  to  the  nation  and  therefore 
its  right  to  attain  and  to  cultivate  its  own 
unique  wisdom.  Now  all  this  is  indeed  ob- 


PROVINCIALISM 

vious  enough,  but  this  is  precisely  what  in 
our  days  of  vast  social  consolidation  we  are 
some  of  us  tending  to  forget. 

Now  as  to  the  more  concrete  means  whereby 
the  wholesome  provincialism  is  to  be  culti- 
vated and  encouraged,  let  me  appeal  directly 
to  the  loyal  member  of  any  provincial  com- 
munity, be  it  the  community  of  a  small  town, 
or  of  a  great  city,  or  of  a  country  district. 
Let  me  point  out  what  kind  of  work  is  needed 
in  order  to  cultivate  that  wise  provincialism 
which,  as  you  see,  I  wish  to  have  grow  not 
in  opposition  to  the  interests  of  the  nation, 
but  for  the  very  sake  of  saving  the  nation  from 
the  modern  evil  tendencies  of  which  I  have 
spoken. 

First,  then,  I  should  say  a  wholesome  pro- 
vincialism is  founded  upon  the  thought  that 
while  local  pride  is  indeed  a  praiseworthy 
accompaniment  of  every  form  of  social  activity, 
our  province,  like  our  own  individuality, 
ought  to  be  to  all  of  us  rather  an  ideal  than  a 
mere  boast.  And  here,  as  I  think,  is  a  matter 
which  is  too  often  forgotten.  Everything 

100 


PROVINCIALISM 

valuable  is,  in  our  present  human  life,  known 
to  us  as  an  ideal  before  it  becomes  an  attain- 
ment, and  in  view  of  our  human  imperfec- 
tions, remains  to  the  end  of  our  short  lives 
much  more  a  hope  and  an  inspiration  than  it 
becomes  a  present  achievement.  Just  be- 
cause the  true  issues  of  human  life  are  brought 
to  a  finish  not  in  time  but  in  eternity,  it  is 
necessary  that  in  our  temporal  existence  what 
is  most  worthy  should  appear  to  us  as  an 
ideal,  as  an  Ought,  rather  than  as  something 
that  is  already  in  our  hands.  The  old  saying 
about  the  bird  in  the  hand  being  worth  two 
in  the  bush  does  not  rightly  apply  to  the  ideal 
goods  of  a  moral  agent  working  under  human 
limitations.  For  him  the  very  value  of  life 
includes  the  fact  that  its  goal  as  something 
infinite  can  never  at  any  one  instant  be  at- 
tained. In  this  fact  the  moral  agent  glories, 
for  it  means  that  he  has  something  to  do. 
Hence  the  ideal  in  the  bush,  so  to  speak, 
is  always  worth  infinitely  more  to  him  than 
the  food  or  the  plaything  of  time  that  hap- 
pens to  be  just  now  in  his  hands.  The  differ- 

101 


PROVINCIALISM 

ence  between  vanity  and  self-respect  depends 
largely  upon  this  emphasizing  of  ideals  in  the 
case  of  the  higher  forms  of  self-consciousness, 
as  opposed  to  the  emphasis  upon  transient 
temporal  attainments  in  the  case  of  the  lower 
forms.  Now  what  holds  true  of  individual 
self-consciousness  ought  to  hold  true  of  the 
self -consciousness  of  the  community.  Boast- 
ing is  often  indeed  harmless  and  may  prove  a 
stimulus  to  good  work.  It  is  therefore  to  be 
indulged  as  a  tribute  to  our  human  weakness. 
But  the  better  aspect  of  our  provincial  con- 
sciousness is  always  its  longing  for  the  improve- 
ment of  the  community. 

And  now,  in  the  second  place,  a  wise  pro- 
vincialism remembers  that  it  is  one  thing  to 
seek  to  make  ideal  values  in  some  unique 
sense  our  own,  and  it  is  quite  another  thing 
to  believe  that  if  they  are  our  own,  other 
people  cannot  possess  such  ideal  values  in 
their  own  equally  unique  fashion.  A  realm 
of  genuinely  spiritual  individuality  is  one 
where  each  individual  has  his  own  unique 
significance,  so  that  none  could  take  another's 

102 


PROVINCIALISM 

place.  But  for  just  that  very  reason  all  the 
unique  individuals  of  the  truly  spiritual  order 
stand  in  relation  to  the  same  universal  light, 
to  the  same  divine  whole  in  relation  to  which 
they  win  their  individuality.  Hence  all  the 
individuals  of  the  true  spiritual  order  have 
ideal  goods  in  common,  as  the  very  means 
whereby  they  can  win  each  his  individual 
place  with  reference  to  the  possession  and  the 
employment  of  these  common  goods.  Well, 
it  is  with  provinces  as  with  individuals.  The 
way  to  win  independence  is  by  learning 
freely  from  abroad,  but  by  then  insisting  upon 
our  own  interpretation  of  the  common  good. 
A  generation  ago  the  Japanese  seemed  to 
most  European  observers  to  be  entering  upon 
a  career  of  total  self-surrender.  They  seemed 
to  be  adopting  without  stint  European  cus- 
toms and  ideals.  They  seemed  to  be  aban- 
doning their  own  national  independence  of 
spirit.  They  appeared  to  be  purely  imitative 
in  their  main  purposes.  They  asked  other 
nations  where  the  skill  of  modern  sciences 
lay,  and  how  the  new  powers  were  to  be  gained 

103 


PROVINCIALISM 

by  them.  They  seemed  to  accept  with  the 
utmost  docility  every  lesson,  and  to  abandon 
with  unexampled  submissiveness,  their  pur- 
pose to  remain  themselves.  Yet  those  of  us 
who  have  watched  them  since,  or  who  have 
become  acquainted  with  representative  Jap- 
anese students,  know  how  utterly  super- 
ficial and  illusory  that  old  impression  of  ours 
was  regarding  the  dependence,  or  the  extreme 
imitativeness,  or  the  helpless  docility,  of  the 
modern  Japanese.  He  has  now  taught  us 
quite  another  lesson.  With  a  curious  and 
on  the  whole  not  unjust  spiritual  wiliness,  he 
has  learned  indeed  our  lesson,  but  he  has 
given  it  his  own  interpretation.  You  always 
feel  in  intercourse  with  a  Japanese  how  un- 
conquerable the  spirit  of  his  nation  is,  how 
inaccessible  the  recesses  of  his  spirit  have  re- 
mained after  all  these  years  of  free  intercourse 
with  Europeans.  In  your  presence  the 
Japanese  always  remains  the  courteous  and 
respectful  learner  so  long  as  he  has  reason  to 
think  that  you  have  anything  to  teach  him. 
But  he  remains  as  absolutely  his  own  master 

104 


PROVINCIALISM 

with  regard  to  the  interpretation,  the  use, 
the  possession  of  all  spiritual  gifts,  as  if  he 
were  the  master  and  you  the  learner.  He  ac- 
cepts the  gifts,  but  their  place  in  his  national 
and  individual  life  is  his  own.  And  we  now 
begin  to  see  that  the  feature  of  the  Japanese 
nationality  as  a  member  of  the  civilized  com- 
pany of  nations  is  to  be  something  quite 
unique  and  independent.  Well,  let  the  Jap- 
anese give  us  a  lesson  in  the  spirit  of  true  pro- 
vincialism. Provincialism  does  not  mean  a 
lack  of  plasticity,  an  unteachable  spirit;  it 
means  a  determination  to  use  the  spiritual 
gifts  that  come  to  us  from  abroad  in  our  own 
way  and  with  reference  to  the  ideals  of  our 
own  social  order. 

And  therefore,  thirdly,  I  say  in  developing 
your  provincial  spirit,  be  quite  willing  to  en- 
courage your  young  men  to  have  relations 
with  other  communities.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  encourage  them  also  to  make  use  of 
what  they  thus  acquire  for  the  furtherance 
of  the  life  of  their  own  community.  Let 
them  win  aid  from  abroad,  but  let  them  also 

105 


PROVINCIALISM 

have,  so  far  as  possible,  an  opportunity  to  use 
this  which  they  acquire  in  the  service  of  their 
home.  Of  course  economic  conditions  rather 
than  deliberate  choice  commonly  determine 
how  far  the  youth  of  a  province  are  able  to 
remain  for  their  lifetime  in  a  place  where  they 
grow  up.  But  so  far  as  a  provincial  spirit  is 
concerned,  it  is  well  to  avoid  each  of  two  ex- 
tremes in  the  treatment  of  the  young  men  of 
the  community,  —  extremes  that  I  have  too 
often  seen  exemplified.  The  one  extreme 
consists  in  maintaining  that  if  young  men 
mean  to  be  loyal  to  their  own  province,  to 
their  own  state,  to  their  own  home,  they  ought 
to  show  their  loyalty  by  an  unwillingness  to 
seek  guidance  from  foreign  literature,  from 
foreign  lands,  in  the  patronizing  of  foreign 
or  distant  institutions,  or  in  the  acceptance  of 
the  customs  and  ideas  of  other  communities 
than  their  own.  Against  this  extreme  let  the 
Japanese  be  our  typical  instance.  They  have 
wandered  far.  They  have  studied  abroad. 
They  have  assimilated  the  lore  of  other  com- 
munities. And  they  have  only  gained  in 

106 


PROVINCIALISM 

local  consciousness,  in  independence  of  spirit, 
by  the  ordeal.  The  other  extreme  is  the  one 
expressed  in  that  tendency  to  wander  and  to 
encourage  wandering,  which  has  led  so  many 
of  our  communities  to  drive  away  the  best 
and  most  active  of  their  young  men.  We 
want  more  of  the  determination  to  find,  if 
possible,  a  place  for  our  youth  in  their  own 
communities. 

Finally,  let  the  province  more  and  more 
seek  its  own  adornment.  Here  I  speak  of  a 
matter  that  in  all  our  American  communities 
has  been  until  recently  far  too  much  neg- 
lected. Local  pride  ought  above  all  to  cen- 
tre, so  far  as  its  material  objects  are  con- 
cerned, about  the  determination  to  give  the  sur- 
roundings of  the  community  nobility,  dignity, 
beauty.  We  Americans  spend  far  too  much 
of  our  early  strength  and  time  in  our  newer 
communities  upon  injuring  our  landscapes, 
and  far  too  little  upon  endeavoring  to  beautify 
our  towns  and  cities.  We  have  begun  to 
change  all  that,  and  while  I  have  no  right  to 
speak  as  an  aesthetic  judge  concerning  the 

107 


PROVINCIALISM 

growth  of  the  love  of  the  beautiful  in  our 
country,  I  can  strongly  insist  that  no  com- 
munity can  think  any  creation  of  genuine 
beauty  and  dignity  in  its  public  buildings  or 
in  the  surroundings  of  its  towns  and  cities 
too  good  a  thing  for  its  own  deserts.  For  we 
deserve  what  in  such  realms  we  can  learn 
how  to  create  or  to  enjoy,  or  to  make  sacri- 
fices for.  And  no  provincialism  will  become 
dangerously  narrow  so  long  as  it  is  constantly 
accompanied  by  a  willingness  to  sacrifice 
much  in  order  to  put  in  the  form  of  great 
institutions,  of  noble  architecture,  and  of  beau- 
tiful surroundings  an  expression  of  the  worth 
that  the  community  attaches  to  its  own  ideals. 


108 


Ill 


ON  CERTAIN  LIMITATIONS  OF  THE  THOUGHT- 
FUL PUBLIC  IN  AMERICA 


Ill 

ON  CERTAIN  LIMITATIONS  OF  THE  THOUGHT- 
FUL PUBLIC  IN  AMERICA1 

~"VTO  one  who  is  engaged  in  any  part  of  the 
4?  work  of  the  higher  education  in  this  coun- 
try can  doubt  that,  at  the  present  time,  our 
thoughtful  public,  — the  great  company  of  those 
who  read,  reflect,  and  aspire, — is  a  larger  factor 
in  our  national  life  than  ever  before.  When 
foreigners  accuse  us  of  extraordinary  love  for 
gain,  and  of  practical  materialism,  they  fail 
to  see  how  largely  we  are  a  nation  of  idealists. 
Yet  that  we  are  such  a  nation  is  something 
constantly  brought  to  the  attention  of  those 
whose  calling  requires  them  to  observe  any 
of  the  tendencies  prevalent  in  our  recent  in- 
tellectual life  in  America. 

I 

When  I  speak,  in  this  way,  of  contemporary 
American  idealists,  I  do  not  now  specially  refer 
1  An  address  first  delivered  at  Vassar  College. 
Ill 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

to  the  holders  of  any  philosophical  opinions,  or 
even  to  the  representatives  of  any  one  type  of 
religious  faith.  I  here  use  the  term  in  no  techni- 
cal sense.  In  this  discussion,  I  mean  by  the 
word  "  idealist,"  a  man  or  woman  who  is 
consciously  and  predominantly  guided,  in  the 
purposes  and  in  the  great  choices  of  life,  by 
large  ideals,  such  as  admit  of  no  merely  mate- 
rial embodiment,  and  such  as  contemplate 
no  merely  private  and  personal  satisfaction 
as  their  goal.  In  this  untechnical  sense  the 
Puritans  were  idealists.  The  signers  of  our 
Declaration  of  Independence  were  idealists. 
Idealism  inspired  us  during  our  Civil  War. 
Idealism  has  expressed  itself  in  the  rich 
differentiation  of  our  national  religious  life. 
Idealism  has  founded  our  colleges  and  univer- 
sities. 

Well,  using  the  term  "  idealism  "  in  this  con- 
fessedly untechnical  sense,  I  say  that  many 
of  our  foreign  judges  have  failed  to  see  how 
largely  we  Americans  are  to-day  a  nation  of 
idealists.  To  be  sure,  we  are  by  no  means 
alone  amongst  modern  men  in  our  idealism. 

112 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

But  elsewhere  sometimes  the  consequences 
of  long-continued  and  oppressive  militarism, 
sometimes  the  stress  of  certain  social  problems, 
and  sometimes  the  burdens  of  ancient  imperial 
responsibility,  have  tended  more  to  discour- 
age, or  even  quite  to  subdue,  many  forms  of  that 
fidelity  to  ideals  upon  which  surely  all  higher 
cvilization  in  any  country  depends.  But, 
with  us,  ever  since  the  close  of  the  Civil  War, 
numerous  forces  have  been  at  work  to  render 
us  as  a  nation  more  thoughtful,  more  aspiring, 
and  more  in  love  with  the  immaterial  things 
of  the  spirit,  and  that  too  even  at  the  very 
moment  when  our  material  prosperity,  with 
all  of  its  well-known  corrupting  temptations, 
has  given  us  much  opportunity,  had  we 
chosen  to  take  it,  to  be  what  the  mistaken 
foreign  critics  often  suppose  us  to  be,  —  a 
people  really  sunk  in  practical  materialism. 

Moreover,  in  saying  all  this,  as  to  our 
general  growth  in  spiritual  interests,  I  am  not 
at  all  unmindful  of  that  other  side,  —  that 
grosser  material  side  of  our  national  life, 
upon  which  our  foreign  critics  so  often  insist, 
i  113 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

The  growth  of  unwise  luxury,  the  brute  power 
of  ill-used  wealth,  the  unideal  aspects  of  our 
political  life,  the  evils  of  our  great  cities,  — 
what  enlightened  American  is  there  who  does 
not  recognize  the  magnitude  of  such  ills  in 
our  midst  ?  But  you  cannot  prove  the  absence 
of  light  merely  by  exploring  the  darker 
chasms  and  caverns  of  our  national  existence. 
Vast  as  are  those  recesses  of  night,  the  light 
of  large  and  inspiring  ideas  shines  upon  still 
vaster  regions  of  our  American  life.  Side 
by  side  with  the  excesses  of  mere  luxury 
you  find,  amongst  our  people,  a  true  and  in- 
creasing, a  self-sacrificing  and  intelligent  love 
of  the  beautiful  for  its  own  sake.  Side  by 
side  with  the  misuse  of  money,  you  observe 
the  encouraging  frequency  of  the  great  and 
humane  deeds  that  wealth  can  do.  Nor  is 
this  all.  An  ardent  and  often  successful 
struggle  for  social  reform,  and  a  civic  pride 
that  aims,  sometimes  even  from  the  very  depths 
of  municipal  degradation,  at  the  accom- 
plishment of  great  and  honorable  public 
services,  —  these  are  tendencies  that  are  grow- 

114 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

ing  amongst  us,  and  that  are  never  wholly  or 
permanently  checked  even  by  the  closest 
contact  with  the  very  worst  of  our  national 
defects. 

Yet,  of  course,  the  real  proof  of  the  prevalence 
of  what  I  have  called  idealism,  in  the  great 
masses  of  our  people,  is  above  all  to  be  sought 
not  in  any  particular  good  deeds  of  wealthy 
men,  nor  yet  in  the  public  life  of  the  great 
cities,  but  in  the  intellectual  and  religious  life 
of  the  community  at  large.  And  here  it  is, 
as  I  say,  that  the  college  teacher,  or  any  other 
worker  professionally  concerned  with  the 
higher  mental  interests  of  our  people,  has  a 
chance  to  estimate  the  strength  and  magni- 
tude of  these  interests  in  the  unseen. 

In  our  country  it  is  extraordinarily  easy, 
and  as  one  may  at  once  admit  it  is  too  easy, 
to  get  a  hearing  for  any  seemingly  new  and 
large-minded  doctrine  relating  either  to  so- 
cial reform  or  to  inspiring  changes  of  creed. 
Whoever  desires  the  reputation  of  the  founder 
of  a  new  sect  has  merely  to  insist  upon  his 
plan  for  reforming  society  and  saving  souls,  — 

115 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

has  merely  to  announce  repeatedly  to  the 
public  the  high  valuation  that  he  sets  upon  his 
own  ideas  concerning  nobler  topics  in  order 
to  win  a  respectful  hearing  from  many,  and, 
if  his  ideas  have  any  measure  of  coherence  and 
of  humanitarian  interest,  an  often  all  too 
kindly  acquiescence  from  at  least  a  few. 
And  the  faithfulness  of  these  few  may  soon 
assume  the  pathetic  intensity  that  so  often 
marks  the  devotion  of  the  followers  of  small 
sects.  Need  I  mention  many  instances  in 
order  to  remind  you  of  the  nature  of  these 
now  so  familiar  processes  in  our  American 
life?  The  late  Mr.  Henry  George  was,  up 
to  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  his  "  Progress 
and  Poverty,"  a  man  quite  unknown  to  the 
nation  at  large,  —  a  California  newspaper 
man,  with  no  obvious  authority  to  teach  con- 
cerning economic  problems.  His  book  re- 
ceived, at  the  time  of  its  appearance,  little  or 
no  support  from  the  professional  economists, 
and  excited  at  first,  I  believe,  little  very 
close  attention  from  their  side.  George  him- 
self was  no  party  manager.  He  used  hardly 

116 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

any  showy  devices  for  attracting  popular 
attention.  He  was  simply  in  earnest.  Yet  we 
all  know  how  the  sect  of  his  followers  grew. 
And  any  busy  man  who  has  sometimes  re- 
ceived letters  from  propagandists  of  that 
particular  sect  will  also  know,  I  suppose, 
how  humane,  how  faithful,  how  strenuous, 
how  unworldly,  and  one  may  add,  how 
unweariedly  obstinate  they  may  be  in  their 
efforts  to  convert  the  doubter  and  to  lead 
people  to  see,  and  if  possible  to  love,  their  new 
way  of  social  salvation.  A  similar,  and  even 
more  swiftly  contagious  kindliness  made  pos- 
sible the  dramatic,  if  temporary,  success  of  Mr. 
Bellamy's  book,  "  Looking  Backward."  And 
again,  a  case  in  point  is  the  movement  in  con- 
nection with  which  Bryan  gained  his  first 
national  prominence  in  1896,  a  movement 
which  came  near  proving  successful,  and  which 
was  then  for  a  time  so  dangerous.  That 
movement  had  its  origin  quite  as  much  in 
practical  idealism  as  in  material  distress. 
Its  fundamental  motives  were  in  considerable 
measure  philanthropic,  humane,  and,  in  an 

117 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE  PUBLIC 

abstract  way,  vaguely  large-minded.  That 
was  precisely  what  made  this  movement  most 
dangerous.  Unwise  philanthropy,  uninstructed 
large-mindedness,  can  often  prove  injurious 
to  the  very  interests  they  seek  to  further. 
Our  greatest  national  danger  now  lies  in  an 
extravagant  love  of  ideally  fascinating  enter- 
prises, whose  practical  results  are  as  hard  to 
foresee  and  to  estimate  as  was  the  end  that 
lay  before  the  noble-hearted  Childe  Rolande 
of  Browning's  well-known  poem,  when  he 
searched  for  the  goal  of  his  journey  in  the 
midst  of  the  shifting  landscapes,  and  the 
treacherous  pathways  of  his  romantic  wilder- 
ness. 

Well,  these,  I  say,  are  instances  of  our 
American  idealism  in  social  matters.  In  re- 
ligion, a  similar  tendency  has  been  strong  in 
our  life  from  the  very  first.  It  has  not  only 
multiplied  sects  among  us,  but  it  has  also 
wrought  great  good  by  giving  lasting  strength 
to  their  missionary  and  to  their  other  phil- 
anthropic enterprises.  Moreover  it  has  en- 
dowed them  with  an  importance  for  the  daily 

118 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

life  of  the  people  that  no  established  State 
church  could  ever  have  won  by  a  merely  ex- 
ternal show  of  authority.  The  same  interest 
in  ideals  has  kept  the  sects  themselves  from 
stagnation,  has  insisted  upon  an  adjustment  of 
whatever  in  their  fashions  of  teaching  was 
non-essential  to  the  vital  needs  of  each  gen- 
eration of  people.  On  the  other  hand,  this 
idealism  often  shows  itself  less  worthily  in  the 
form  of  a  hasty  desire  for  whatever  seems  new, 
or  remote,  or  fantastic  in  faith.  At  the  present 
day  there  is  hardly  a  conceivable  creed  about 
ultimate  matters,  be  it  never  so  quaint  or  so 
unreasonable  that,  if  its  apparent  intents  are 
only  humane,  and  its  catch  words  impressive, 
this  creed  once  earnestly  taught  cannot  very 
quickly  find  a  body  of  adherents,  not  only  in 
our  country  at  large,  but  in  some  of  the  most 
thoughtful  and  sophisticated  communities 
which  our  country  contains.  It  is  not  the 
ignorant  amongst  us  who  are  the  prey  of 
strange  new  doctrines,  so  much  as  a  portion 
of  the  most  considerate  classes  of  our  public. 
And  we  are  indeed  not  obliged  to  be  big- 

119 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

oted  in  order  to  feel  that,  at  present,  this 
spiritual  plasticity  of  our  American  public 
has  gone  too  far.  We  ought  to  be  docile; 
but  the  disposition  to  prove  all  things  can 
easily  outrun  the  power  to  hold  fast  that 
which  is  good. 

As  a  consequence,  if  new  sects  thus  easily 
find  followers,  and  often  faithful  and  per- 
manent followers,  there  is  also  the  other  side 
of  the  picture.  There  are  those  of  our  people 
who  waste  life  in  merely  floating  from  doctrine 
to  doctrine.  In  such  minds  the  art  of  holding 
fast  has  wholly  been  lost,  in  favor  of  the  easier 
art  of  at  least  playing  with  all  the  things  that 
belong  in  the  realms  of  the  spirit.  For  such 
souls,  new  doctrines  are  like  new  pictures,  or 
new  plays,  or  like  the  passing  events  of  a  social 
season.  The  more  ardent  amongst  such 
people  grow  temporarily  enthusiastic  upon 
every  new  occasion  where  they  listen  to  what 
they  cannot  comprehend.  The  more  dis- 
illusioned find  the  novelties  in  doctrine  more 
or  less  of  a  bore,  just  as  some  folk  always 
find  the  plays  and  the  parties  tedious.  But 

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LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

both  the  ardent  and  the  disillusioned,  in  such 
social  groups  as  I  now  have  in  mind,  do  indeed 
treat  the  new  doctrines  and  the  various  rival 
plans  of  salvation  altogether  too  much  as  they 
treat  the  social  occasions,  the  plays,  or  the 
pictures.  They  expect  something  new  to  take 
the  place  of  the  old  at  each  moment  of  their 
experience.  And  whether  ardent  or  bored 
they  continue  their  life-long  quest  for  spiritual 
sensations. 

Such  excesses  of  the  higher  life  in  our 
country  are  only  too  easy  to  observe  and, 
upon  occasion,  to  ridicule.  I  have  not  men- 
tioned them  however  for  the  sake  of  ridicule. 
Spinoza  said  that  human  affairs  are  neither 
to  be  wept  over  nor  to  be  laughed  at,  but  to  be 
understood;  and  Spinoza's  word,  despite  its 
seeming  fatalism,  had  from  any  point  of  view 
its  large  measure  of  truth.  I  am  speaking 
at  present  of  symptoms.  These  symptoms, 
like  other  incidents  of  so  complex  a  life  as 
ours,  have  both  their  good  and  their  evil 
aspects.  Devotion  to  ideals  has  its  dangers 
as  it  has  its  glories.  I  have  to  point  out  the 

121 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

one  as  an  aid  toward  a  comprehension  of  .the 
other. 

I  turn  to  still  other  and  better  aspects  of 
the  tendency  here  in  question.  If  one  asks 
what  the  devotion  to  ideals  has  of  late  accom- 
plished with  purest  success  in  the  intellectual 
life  of  our  country,  I  myself  should  be  disposed 
to  name,  as  one  of  the  noblest,  most  positive, 
and  most  unsullied  products  of  American 
idealism  in  recent  years,  the  whole  modern 
educational  movement.  The  reform  of  aca- 
demic methods  and  interests,  both  in  the 
younger  and  in  the  older  universities  and 
colleges  has  been  such,  within  the  past  twenty- 
five  years,  as  to  constitute  one  of  the  most 
substantial  and  significant  events  in  our 
national  history.  The  general  public  still 
understands  all  too  little  of  the  vast  work 
that  has  been  accomplished.  By  the  fault 
of  too  large  a  portion  of  the  newspaper  press 
of  the  country  the  more  trivial  aspects  of  our 
academic  life,  —  the  public  athletic  contests, 
and  the  idle  gossip  of  the  hour, — are  continually 
exaggerated,  while  the  serious  and  the  most 

122 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

progressive  tendencies  of  this  same  life  are  as 
persistently  slighted  and  are  often  misrepre- 
sented. Yet  despite  the  false  perspective 
in  which  our  colleges  are  thus  often  made  to 
appear,  the  general  public  has  nevertheless 
somehow  learned  to  support  nobly  the  inter- 
ests of  academic  reform.  The  vast  sums  that 
have  been  dedicated  to  the  cause  of  learning, 
the  cordial  approval  that  our  more  enlightened 
people  have  given  to  the  attempts  at  bettering 
higher  education,  —  these  have  been  most 
encouraging  features  of  our  educational  move- 
ment. Nor  has  this  movement  confined  itself 
to  the  Universities  and  Colleges.  In  its 
connection  with  the  lower  schools  it  is  still 
in  the  period  of  storm  and  stress  and  hope. 
But  it  is  indeed,  in  all  its  forms,  a  movement 
in  the  interest  of  ideals.  It  has  needed  at 
every  step  great  sacrifices,  strenuous  devotion, 
wide  sympathies,  and  far-reaching  foresight. 
And  these  have  been  forthcoming.  When 
an  intelligent  American  wants  to  vindicate  the 
honor  of  his  country  to  foreigners,  I  know 
in  our  recent  history  of  no  purer  instance  of 

123 


LIMITATIONS  OF   THE   PUBLIC 

single-hearted  patriotism,  devoted  to  humane 
and  unsullied  ideals,  and  successful  against 
all  sorts  of  foes,  not  only  without  but  within, — 
I  know,  I  say,  of  no  purer  instance  of  such 
true  patriotism  than  is  furnished  by  just 
the  great  educational  reform  movement, 
and  especially  the  academic  movement  of 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century.  For  this  has 
indeed  been  no  mere  effort  of  dreamers.  It 
has  been  a  practical  movement.  It  has  been 
guided  by  administrators  who  were  often  of 
the  highest  executive  talent,  —  men  quite 
capable,  in  many  instances,  of  winning  worldly 
success  in  wholly  different  and  more  showy 
regions  of  public  life.  It  has  been  supported 
by  benefactors  who  were  often  tempted  by  all 
sorts  of  more  selfish  interests  to  use  their 
wealth  otherwise.  It  has  given  to  great 
numbers  of  youth  a  light  and  guidance  that 
have  meant  for  them  escape  from  spiritual 
bondage,  and  an  opportunity  to  become  in 
their  turn  benefactors.  It  has  furnished  to 
our  country  a  constantly  increasing  class  of 
cultivated  workers,  ready  to  enter  practical 

124 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE   PUBLIC 

life  with  the  ardor  of  a  genuine  idealism  in 
their  hearts  and  minds.  And  great  as  this 
academic  movement  has  been,  its  influence  is 
only  beginning.  Its  real  fruits  are  still  to  be 
gathered. 

So  far,  then,  I  have  surveyed  a  number 
of  forms  of  recent  American  idealism.  I  have 
meant  to  be  fair  to  both  sides  of  the  shield. 
Not  all  golden  is  our  devotion  to  ideals.  Yet 
this  devotion  is  too  marked  a  feature  of  our 
national  spirit  to  justify  the  neglect  of  those 
among  our  foreign  critics  who  regard  us  as 
mainly  workers  for  wealth,  or  as  lovers  of 
mere  material  power.  It  may  not  be  un- 
fitting, upon  this  occasion,  for  us  to  ask  our- 
selves what  can  yet  be  done  to  make  our  na- 
tional idealism  more  intelligent,  better  or- 
ganized, and,  above  all,  more  effective. 

II 

For,  after  all  that  we  have  thus  far  said, 
when  we  try  to  sum  up  the  amount  of  influence 
exerted  by  these  various  forms  of  idealism 
upon  the  actual  life  of  our  country,  we  are 

125 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

obliged  to  confess  that  our  thoughtful  public 
is  not  yet  as  efficacious  as  it  ought  to  be. 
Too  frequently  we  find  the  lovers  of  the  ideal 
engaged  in  unprofitable  conflicts  with  their 
spiritual  kindred.  Plan  wars  with  plan;  re- 
form stands  in  hostile  array  over  against 
reform.  Meanwhile  the  children  of  this  world 
are  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the  children 
of  light.  The  people  who  dwell  in  the  realms 
of  thought  and  of  higher  faith  consequently 
find  themselves  unable  to  organize  effectively 
their  reforms.  They  indeed  associate,  dis- 
course, and  take  counsel  together.  But  their 
enemies  remain  too  often  the  better  managers. 
While,  as  I  just  said,  the  academic  movement 
is  the  great  instance  amongst  us,  in  recent 
times,  of  the  possible  practical  success  of 
ideal  interests,  this  educational  progress 
stands  too  much  alone.  Our  tree  of  life 
flourishes,  and  puts  forth  countless  leaves; 
but  it  does  not  yet  bear  sufficient  fruit  for  the 
healing  of  the  nation.  Our  national  idealism 
is  more  characteristic  of  our  intellectual  and 
religious  life  than  it  is  productive  of  per- 

126 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE  PUBLIC 

manent,  organized,  and  substantial  results. 
Whenever  the  servants  of  ill  perfect  their 
devices  for  corrupting  anywhere  the  state, 
and  misusing  its  resources,  the  lovers  of  good 
things  find  themselves  too  frequently  helpless 
to  thwart  such  mischief.  Yet  amongst  us 
the  conscious  servants  of  ill  are  really  in  a 
very  decided  minority.  Our  youth  are  ex- 
ceptionally high-minded  and  aspiring.  Our 
social  life  is  full  of  admirable  purposes.  Our 
people  are  very  generally  interested  in  the 
things  of  the  spirit.  Yet  the  enemy  seems 
to  have  possession  of  far  too  many  of  the 
effective  weapons  of  social  and  of  political 
warfare.  When  we  try  to  meet  him  in  the 
field,  we  are  too  scattered,  too  fantastic,  or 
too  uncertain  in  mind,  to  be  ready  for  an 
effective  fight.  Our  thoughtfulness  involves 
too  much  idle  curiosity,  too  much  vaguely 
restless  ardor,  too  much  unwillingness  to 
accept  the  necessary  material  limitations  under 
which  human  work  is  to  be  done.  And  there- 
fore we  are  indeed  often,  in  practical  under- 
takings, "beaten  down"  like  Tennyson's 

127 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

Lancelot  in  his  quest  for  the  Grail,  "beaten 
down  by  little  men,  mean  knights."  The 
enemy,  the  power  of  evil  at  work,  in  whatever 
form  in  our  land,  —  the  enemy  at  least  always 
knows  his  own  purpose.  But  we,  we  lovers 
of  the  ideal,  spend  far  too  much  of  our  time 
vaguely  wandering  from  one  club-meeting  or 
lecture  or  recent  book  to  another,  trying  to 
discover  just  what  it  is  that  we  are  thinking 
about.  While  we,  with  eager  minds,  in- 
quire into  the  shifting  thing  sometimes  called 
the  New  Thought,  the  enemy  is  steadily 
engaged  in  serving  the  purposes  of  the  Old 
Adam.  And  those  purposes  need  no  course 
of  lectures  to  define  them,  no  laborious  clam- 
bering toward  any  "higher  plane"  to  survey 
them.  The  devil  within  is  always  ready  to 
explain  them  directly  and  personally  to  all 
comers.  The  consequence  is  precisely  that 
appearance  of  grosser  materialism  which  our 
foreign  critics  falsely  take  to  be  characteris- 
tic of  our  country.  But  much  more  character- 
istic of  us  is  the  intensity,  the  manifoldness, 
the  restlessness,  and  in  all  but  a  few  regions, 

128 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

the  relative  ineffectiveness  of  our  national 
idealism. 

Look  where  you  will,  even  in  the  regions 
where  ideas  best  and  most  beneficently  ex- 
press themselves  in  our  social  life,  and  you 
find  the  same  limitations  of  our  thoughtful 
public  exemplified,  setting  bounds  to  our 
spiritual  progress  even  in  the  best  regions  of 
our  activity,  and  resulting  in  too  many  cases, 
in  a  more  or  less  complete  inability  to  do 
wholesome  reforming  work  where  work  is  most 
needed.  In  speaking  thus,  I  have  in  mind  no 
one  section  of  our  country,  no  one  type  of  activ- 
ity, no  one  special  class  of  our  thoughtful  public. 
As  myself  a  Californian,  and  as  one  often 
called  upon  to  visit,  in  connection  with  pro- 
fessional duties,  very  various  parts  of  our  land, 
I  have  felt  the  limitations  of  which  I  speak 
in  the  West  as  well  as  in  the  East,  amongst 
good  men  and  women,  in  the  life  of  the  pro- 
fessional classes  as  well  as  in  the  life  of  the 
people  of  the  world. 

Wherever  you  go,  you  find  the  typical 
American  sensitive  to  ideas,  curious  about 

K  129 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE  PUBLIC 

doctrines,  concerned  for  his  soul's  salvation, 
still  more  concerned  for  the  higher  welfare  of 
his  children,  willing  to  hear  about  great 
topics,  dissatisfied  with  merely  material  ob- 
jects, seeking  even  wealth  rather  with  a  view 
to  its  more  ideal  uses  than  with  a  mere  desire 
for  its  sensuous  gratifications,  disposed  to 
plan  great  things  for  his  country  and  for  his 
community,  proud  of  both,  jealous  of  their 
honor,  and  discontented  with  the  life  that  now 
is.  His  piety  has  its  ideal  fervor  none  the 
less  when  it  is  the  piety  of  the  free  thinker 
than  when  it  is  that  of  the  faithful.  He 
forms  and  supports  great  associations  for 
public-spirited  ends.  He  encourages  science 
and  learning.  He  pauses  in  the  midst  of  the 
rush  of  business  to  discuss  religion,  or  educa- 
tion, or  psychical  research,  or  mental  healing, 
or  socialism.  His  well-known  and  character- 
istic devotion  to  his  children  keeps  fresh  in  his 
heart  a  childlike  love  of  plans  and  hopes  and 
beliefs  that  belong  not  so  much  to  the  market- 
place, as  to  the  far-off  future,  and  to  the  home 
land  of  the  Platonic  ideas. 

130 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

Yet  this  same  American  is  unable  to  give 
his  idealism  any  adequate  expression  in  his 
social  life.  His  country  towns  and  his  manu- 
facturing cities  are  too  often  full  of  hideous 
ugliness.  Even  the  best  of  his  great  cities 
are  in  appearance  whatever  they  happen  to 
be.  In  founding  new  cities  and  in  occupying 
new  lands  he  first  devotes  himself  to  burning 
the  forests,  to  levelling  with  ruthless  eagerness 
the  hill-slopes,  to  inflicting  upon  the  land, 
whatever  its  topography,  the  unvarying  plan 
of  his  system  of  straight  streets  and  of  rec- 
tangular street  crossings.  In  brief,  he  begins 
his  new  settlements  by  a  feverish  endeavor 
to  ruin  the  landscape.  Now  all  this  he  does 
not  at  all  because  he  is  a  mere  materialist 
but  (as  a  colleague  of  mine,  Professor  George 
Palmer,  has  pointed  out),  he  does  this  be- 
cause mere  nature  is,  as  such,  vaguely  unsatis- 
factory to  his  soul,  because  what  is  merely 
found  must  never  content  us,  and  because  our 
present  life  itself  is  felt  to  be  not  yet  ideal. 
Hence,  the  first  desire  is  to  change,  to  disturb, 
to  bring  the  new  with  us. 

131 


LIMITATIONS  OF   THE   PUBLIC 

In  the  regions  thus  so  quickly  altered  by 
man's  hand,  a  community  spirit,  a  strong 
local  pride,  quickly  springs  up.  The  church, 
the  school,  the  university,  appear  within  a  very 
few  years,  and  seem  at  first  as  if  they  were 
quite  at  home.  One  is  firmly  determined,  in 
each  young  community,  that  they  shall  all  be 
the  best  of  their  kind  anywhere  to  be  found. 
The  social  order  thus  established  has  also  its 
representative  literature,  —  its  poets,  its  ar- 
tists, its  public  heroes,  even  its  swiftly  acquired 
local  traditions,  as  well  as  its  self-conscious 
social  independence,  somewhat  too  ardently 
and  tremulously  asserted,  of  the  mere  worn- 
out  ideals  and  authority  of  the  older  regions 
of  the  country. 

Nor  are  the  interests  in  ideal  things  confined 
to  such  expressions.  Confident  faith  in  the 
future  and  in  the  might  of  the  new  life  as- 
serts itself  in  such  newer  regions  of  our  land 
in  the  overhasty  construction  of  great  rail- 
ways, that  pierce  the  mountains  or  invade  the 
deserts,  long  before  a  less  restlessly  ideal 
people  would  have  seen  sufficient  prospect  of 

132 


LIMITATIONS  OP  THE   PUBLIC 

any  adequate  return  for  the  material  outlay. 
Our  pioneer  makers  of  railways  have  often 
seemed  as  if  they  were  themselves  amongst 
the  prophets,  the  poets,  or  even  the  fanatics 
of  our  newer  communities.  But  the  result  of 
this  eagerness  is  too  often  a  swift  bankruptcy. 
The  young  community  flies  too  near  the  sun, 
and  then  lies  prostrate  and  wingless  in  the 
despair  of  hard  times. 

Hereupon  begins  the  grosser  period.  The 
community  soon  really  possesses  through  mere 
accumulation  more  wealth  and  power;  yet 
merciless  money-getters  have  profited  by 
the  failures  of  the  first  period,  and  these  now 
take  possession  of  the  creations  of  the  pioneers, 
crush  out  weaker  opponents,  obtain  too  much 
influence  in  local  politics,  and  give  to  the  life 
of  the  community  just  that  outward  seeming 
of  mere  materialism  of  which  we  have  spoken. 
And  now  the  better  men  learn  more  thought- 
fully to  look  about  them,  only  to  observe,  at 
this  stage,  what  vast  opportunities  have  been 
lost,  what  noble  natural  beauties  have  been 
hopelessly  defaced,  what  ideal  kingdoms  have 

133 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

been  carelessly  created  only  to  be  conquered 
by  the  enemy. 

The  real  struggle  with  evil  herewith  begins. 
The  social  order,  so  hastily  and  easily  organized 
at  the  outset,  through  the  finely  ideal  political 
instincts  of  our  people,  now  becomes  infected 
by  various  political  diseases.  Corruption 
grows  too  prominent  in  politics.  The  Philis- 
tines seem  to  have  captured  and  blinded  the 
Sampson  whose  deeds  made  the  pioneer  days 
so  wonderful.  Satan  seems  to  have  tri- 
umphed. 

Yet  this  triumph  is  never  so  real  as  it  seems. 
The  good  are  still  in  the  majority.  The  heart 
of  society  is  still  healthy.  The  church,  the 
school,  the  university,  the  public  library,  the 
literary  circles,  the  intellectual  clubs,  —  these 
not  only  remain,  but  multiply,  and  in  these  one 
finds  centres  for  the  propagation  of  ideal 
interests.  Would-be  reformers  become  numer- 
ous. But  alas,  they  war  among  themselves. 
They  are  too  often  crude,  strident,  prejudiced. 
Greed  too  often  wins  possession  of  the  strong- 
est material  forces  of  the  community.  The 

134 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

/ 
reformers  lift  their  too  familiar  voices  in  vain. 

The  prophets  true  and  false  speak  their 
many  words.  Many  listen  and  applaud.  Yet 
at  the  elections  the  prophets  do  not  win.  The 
thoughtful  public  remains  the  most  char- 
acteristic, but  too  often  the  least  effective, 
portion  of  the  community. 

Such  is  the  tale  of  too  many  of  our  newer 
communities.  Shall  I  speak  still  of  the  older 
communities?  There  indeed  the  processes 
are  more  complex;  but  the  lesson,  like  the 
outcome,  is  too  often  the  same.  The  great 
limitation  of  our  thoughtful  public  in  America 
remains  its  inability  to  take  sufficient  control 
of  affairs.  And  in  pointing  out  this  limitation, 
I  have  already  indicated,  in  a  measure,  both 
its  causes  and  the  directions  in  which  we  ought 
to  look  for  a  cure,  if  a  cure  is  possible,  for  this 
ineffectiveness  of  our  American  idealism.  Let 
me  pass  then  to  a  closer  study  of  this  latter 
aspect  of  the  case.  I  have  not  undertaken 
this  discussion  for  the  sake  of  merely  criti- 
cising my  brethren ;  but  for  the  sake  of  sug- 
gesting some  few  ways  of  improving  our 

135 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE   PUBLIC 

state,  in  so  far  as  any  poor  suggestions  of  mine 
can  hope  to  possess  value. 

Ill 

Yet,  as  I  go  on  to  this  side  of  our  topic, 
I  must  indeed  admit  quite  freely  that  I  have 
no  panacea,  no  quack  remedy  to  suggest,  as 
any  infallible  cure  for  the  ineffectiveness  of 
our  national  idealism,  or  as  any  one  saving 
device  for  overcoming  the  limitations  of 
our  thoughtful  public.  Such  ills  as  the  one 
here  in  question  always  lie  deep  in  the  very 
constitution  of  our  temperaments.  We  can- 
not, by  merely  taking  thought,  add  a  cubit 
to  our  stature.  One  of  the  very  limitations 
of  our  thoughtful  public  which  are  here  under 
discussion  lies  in  the  fact  that  many  of  us 
suppose  great  reforms  to  be  possible  merely 
through  good  resolutions.  Yet  good  resolu- 
tions have  their  place  in  accomplishing  re- 
forms. Our  mere  human  consciousness  never 
by  itself  transforms  our  temperaments;  but 
it  may  do  something  toward  lessening  their 
ill  effects,  and  toward  intensifying  or  en- 

136 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

larging  the  range  of  their  good  qualities. 
Where  limitations  have  to  be  overcome,  a  due 
measure  of  consciousness  as  to  where  the 
fault  lies  does  not  come  amiss.  Accordingly, 
with  a  full  sense  of  the  little  that  I  can  do  by 
such  mere  practical  advice  as  lies  within  my 
scope,  I  still  wish  not  merely  to  point  out  the 
ailment,  but  to  show  how  it  may  be  attacked. 
That  it  is  no  hopeless  ailment,  such  successes 
of  our  idealism  as  the  modern  educational 
movement  have  already  shown  us.  May  we 
not  hope  to  escape  in  time  and  at  last,  in  a 
measure  from  the  ineffectiveness  that  now 
besets  the  efforts  of  the  thoughtful  people  of 
our  country  ? 

Reform,  in  such  matters,  must  come,  if  at 
all,  from  within.  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
within  you;  and  that  truth  is  precisely  what 
all  ideally  minded  people  know.  It  is  this 
knowledge  which  makes  them  lovers  of  the 
unseen.  I  cannot  then  offer  any  pedagogical 
device  for  raising  the  thoughtful  public  of  our 
country  to  a  higher  level  of  effectiveness,  unless 
my  device  appeals  directly  to  the  individual. 

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LIMITATIONS    OF   THE   PUBLIC 

The  public  as  a  whole  is  whatever  the  pro- 
cesses that  occur,  for  good  or  for  evil,  in  in- 
dividual minds,  may  determine.  No  one  of 
us  is  individually  called  upon  for  any  very 
large  share  in  determining  other  peoples'  lives. 
The  work  of  any  one  man,  in  this  life,  has  a 
narrow  range.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
forest  is  made  of  the  trees ;  and  great  reforms 
are  due  to  the  combined  action  of  numerous 
individuals. 

I  appeal  then  to  the  individual  lover 
of  ideals.  I  say,  upon  such  as  you  are, 
and  upon  such  as  you  aspire  to  be,  the  future 
of  our  country  depends.  If  you  fail,  in  union 
with  your  spiritual  kind,  to  win,  and  to  win 
for  good,  the  controlling  voice  in  the  nation's 
affairs,  corruption,  grossness,  despotism,  social 
ruin,  will  sooner  or  later  make  naught  of  our 
liberties,  of  all  the  dear  memory  of  our  country's 
fathers,  and  of  the  great  work  that  we  in 
America  ought  to  do  for  mankind.  And  if  such 
as  you  are  find  not  the  way  to  overcome,  in 
time,  these  present  limitations  of  the  effective- 
ness of  our  thoughtful  public,  you  will  fail 

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LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

to  win  and  to  retain  control  of  the  constantly 
increasing  complications  of  our  national  life. 
Our  ideals  will  grow  vaguer  and  more  rest- 
less, even  while  our  material  activities  become 
more  steadily  enchained  by  the  powers  of 
evil.  We  shall  end  where  others  have  ended, 
in  national  disaster,  in  social  dissolution,  in 
humiliation,  in  the  clutches  of  some  domestic 
or  foreign  conqueror. 

But  in  case  you  win  effective  control  over 
your  personal  ideals  and  over  your  own  pro- 
cesses of  giving  them  expression,  you  your- 
self as  an  individual  will  indeed  accomplish 
but  an  infinitesimal  portion  of  the  nation's 
vast  task.  Yet  still  it  will  be  the  nation's 
task  in  which,  in  your  measure,  you  will  be 
engaged.  For  no  man  liveth  unto  himself, 
and  no  man  dieth  unto  himself.  I  appeal 
then  to  you,  and  to  the  public,  only  through 
such  as  you  are.  If  you,  together  with  the 
others  who  love  the  coming  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  succeed  in  solving  your  personal 
problems,  the  good  cause  will  win  in  public 
as  in  private.  And  what  you  need  to  find  is 

139 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

some  little  task  that  you  can  effectually  do. 
That  task  you  need  to  perform. 

To  the  individual,  then,  I  address  myself. 
Nor  do  I  forget  that  I  am  speaking  to  students 
who  already  know  what  one  means  by  high 
ideals,  and  by  hearty  aspirations,  and  who 
stand  at  the  beginning  of  life's  great  tasks. 
There  comes  a  sad  time  in  many  lives,  when 
people  who  have  long  struggled  in  vain  with 
foes  without  and  foes  within,  grow  weary  of 
the  cultivation  of  ideal  interests.  Those  to 
whom  I  am  especially  privileged  to  speak, 
upon  this  occasion,  have  not  reached  this  stage. 
I  hope  that  when  any  of  you  reach  it,  you  will 
pass  it  successfully,  for  nothing  better  have  we 
in  this  life  than  our  ideals  and  our  hopes,  and 
our  power  to  do  a  little  work.  Just  now  you 
are  privileged  to  have  a  faith,  still  unsullied, 
in  such  ideals,  and  a  hope  to  do  good  work. 
I  want  to  indicate  some  of  the  ways  in  which 
one  may  wisely  nourish  this  faith,  and  under- 
take this  work. 


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LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

IV 

My  first  word  of  advice,  addressed  thus 
especially  to  the  thoughtful  amongst  us, 
relates  to  a  certain  moderation,  to  a  certain 
temperance,  that,  as  I  believe,  we  must  all 
cultivate  in  dealing  with  our  own  conscious- 
ness of  what  our  ideals  are.  Devotion  to 
what  we  believe  to  be  a  high  cause  demands 
of  us,  indeed,  a  certain  thoroughness  of  sur- 
render, a  certain  persistence  in  service,  which, 
in  its  own  due  time  and  place,  ought  to  know 
indeed  no  bounds.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
thoughtful  people  cultivate  ideals,  they  do  so, 
in  part,  by  thinking  over  these  ideals,  by 
reasoning  about  them,  by  becoming  conscious 
of  what  they  are,  by  trying  to  convert  others 
to  these  ideals,  and,  in  general,  by  giving  these 
ideals  articulate  expression.  The  faithfulness 
of  the  unlearned  may  be  dumb,  half-conscious, 
incapable  of  giving  any  reason  for  itself.  The 
fidelity  of  the  thoughtful  seeks  definite  formu- 
lation in  a  creed,  propagates  its  cause  by 
spoken  and  by  written  words,  voices  itself  in 

141 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

a  doctrine  that  can  be  defended  or  assailed 
by  argument,  —  in  brief,  seeks  to  add  knowl- 
edge to  faith,  insight  to  service,  and  teaching 
to  example.  You  often  hear  how  important 
it  is  to  be  not  only  devoted,  but  wise,  clear  of 
head  as  well  as  persistent  in  service.  Now 
such  tendencies  are  an  important  factor  in 
the  lives  of  all  thoughtful  people.  Their 
highest  expression  is  a  reasoned  philosophy, 
which  undertakes  to  investigate,  to  compare, 
to  harmonize,  and  then,  finally,  to  formulate 
and  to  teach  systems  of  ideals.  Now  I  am 
myself  by  calling  a  teacher  of  philosophy. 
I  believe  in  persistent  thoughtfulness  as  a 
most  important  factor  in  the  higher  life  of 
humanity.  I  try  to  become  as  conscious  as 
I  properly  can  become  of  what  my  ideals  are, 
and  of  why  I  hold  them,  and  of  how  they  go 
together  to  make  one  whole,  and  of  why  other 
lovers  of  reason  ought,  if  I  am  right,  to  accept 
my  ideals.  Over  against  the  inconsiderate 
partisans  of  this  or  of  that  form  of  unreason- 
ing faith,  I  often  have,  as  teacher  of  philosophy, 
to  maintain  the  importance,  for  certain  great 

142 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE   PUBLIC 

purposes,  of  giving  a  reason  for  the  faith  that 
is  in  us.  And  so,  as  you  see,  I  am  in  every 
way  disposed  to  favor,  in  its  place,  not  only 
the  thoughtful  spirit  of  inquiry,  but  the  dis- 
position to  formulate  ideals  in  a  definite  and 
conscious  way,  to  maintain  them  through 
argument,  and  to  propagate  them  by  the 
spoken  and  by  the  written  word.  I  believe 
in  the  human  reason,  as  a  vastly  important 
factor  in  the  development  of  all  our  ideals. 

And  yet,  —  I  can  here  speak  all  the  more 
frankly  just  because  my  profession  is  that  of  the 
reasoner,  —  I  constantly  see  mischief  done 
by  an  unwise  exaggeration  of  the  tendency 
to  reason,  to  argue,  to  trust  to  mere  formulas, 
to  seek  for  the  all-solving  word;  in  brief,  to 
bring  to  consciousness  what  for  a  given 
individual  ought  to  remain  unconscious. 
Thoughtfulness  is,  for  us  in  this  life,  like  any 
other  human  power  and  privilege.  It  must 
be  exercised  with  a  proper  moderation. 
Thought  must  indeed  be  free.  But  freedom 
means  responsibility.  Thought,  in  any  in- 
dividual, must  freely  set  limits  to  its  own 

143 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

finite  task.  And  when  the  thoughtful  lovers 
of  ideals  forget  this  fact,  they  may  become 
mere  wranglers,  or  doctrinaires,  or  pedants, 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  end,  through 
failure  in  thinking,  they  may  become  cynics. 
Now  some  may  wonder  that,  as  a  teacher 
of  philosophy,  I  should  at  once  lay  the  first 
stress  upon  this  defect  of  the  lovers  of  ideals, 
as  a  defect  so  often  attendant  upon  the  pro- 
cesses of  unhappy  thinkers.  Some  may  wonder 
that  I  first  confess  the  errors  of  my  own  call- 
ing. Yet  why  should  I  not  do  so?  What 
defects  has  one  more  occasion  to  observe 
than  those  which  occur  in  the  erring  human 
effort  to  pursue  his  own  calling?  If  one 
loves  his  calling  and  believes  in  it,  does  he 
therefore  ignore  these  defects?  Shall  one 
make  a  business  of  the  art  of  seeing  clearly, 
and  yet  entirely  ignore  the  imperfections 
that  may  naturally  beset  his  own  organ  of 
vision  ? 

Very  well  then,  I  first  observe  that  many 
thoughtful  lovers  of  ideals,  many  students, 
many  reformers,  many  teachers,  are  too 

144 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

much  disposed  to  trust  to  constant  argument, 
reasoning,  or  reflection,  to  keep  them  faithful 
to  their  own  ideals,  and  to  win  others  to  these 
ideals.  Or  again,  some  lovers  of  the  ideal, 
even  when  they  profess  not  to  argue,  but  to  be 
followers  of  intuition,  still  in  many  cases  are 
too  fond  of  abstract  formulas,  of  catch  words 
or  phrases.  Such  mistake  fads  for  eternal 
truths.  Now  all  such  have  not  observed  the 
inevitable  limitations  of  the  human  thinking 
process  in  each  individual  mind.  They  do 
not  observe  that  any  one  of  us  can  think 
clearly  and  reflectively  and  can  formulate 
exactly  and  successfully  only  in  case  we  think 
with  due  moderation,  and  think  during  the 
time  properly  set  apart  for  thought,  trying  to 
formulate  only  what  we  have  more  or  less 
expert  right  to  understand,  and  then  devoting 
the  rest  of  life  to  naivete  and  to  relatively 
unreflective  action.  As  a  professional  rea- 
soner,  I  have  a  profound  contempt  for  de- 
liberate excesses  in  the  work  of  reasoning; 
I  personally  try  to  avoid  such  excesses. 
As  one  busy  with  formulating  theories,  I 
L  145 


LIMITATIONS  OF   THE   PUBLIC 

have  a  great  hatred  for  the  excessive  use  of 
formulas. 

I  remember  well,  from  my  student  days, 
a  pathetic  incident  that  may  illustrate  the 
spirit  in  which  I  make  this  confession.  While 
I  was  studying  philosophy,  one  winter  at 
Leipzig,  I  enjoyed  many  happy  hours  in  com- 
pany with  a  musical  friend  of  mine,  an  ad- 
vanced student  at  the  Conservatory,  who  had 
devoted  himself  since  childhood  to  the  violin, 
and  who  has  since  won  an  important  place  in 
his  profession.  He  often  took  me  to  attend 
the  musical  evenings  at  the  Conservatory,  and 
so  helped  me,  as  a  mere  listener,  to  enter  the 
wondrous  world  of  tones  where  he  was  making 
his  home.  But  alas !  for  the  moment,  my 
friend,  although  so  faithful  and  advanced 
a  student  of  music,  was  himself  no  public 
performer  at  the  Conservatory  evenings,  al- 
though in  previous  years  he  had  been  a  promi- 
nent and  favorite  student  player.  Over- 
work had  given  him,  for  the  time,  one  of  those 
well-known  functional  nervous  troubles  of 
coordination,  or  "occupation  disorders"; 

146 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

namely,  in  his  case,  a  "violinist's  arm."  Neu- 
ralgic pains  whenever  he  played  had  forced 
him  to  suspend  his  efforts.  Prolonged  rest 
for  his  arm  was  needed.  My  friend  was 
perforce  spending  this  year  in  the  study  of 
musical  theory,  and  in  other  more  general  in- 
tellectual tasks  relating  to  his  art.  Naturally 
this  forced  restraint  was  hard,  and  wounded 
ambition  would  often  express  itself;  but 
still  my  friend  was  a  man  of  general  mental 
skill,  who  had  therefore  not  a  few  resources 
in  his  distress.  One  evening  we  were  to- 
gether at  the  Conservatory.  Many  students 
played.  Among  them  my  friend's  principal 
contemporary  and  rival,  a  young  violinist 
of  no  small  skill,  won  abounding  applause 
by  a  very  brilliant  performance.  And  my 
friend,  sitting  beside  me  with  wounded  wing, 
must  merely  listen  !  It  would  have  been  more 
than  human  not  to  rebel  a  little.  But  my 
friend  could  at  least  remember  that  he  himself 
had  his  own  variety  of  mental  occupations. 
He  did  remember  this  fact,  yet  he  grieved 
inwardly  and  deeply.  As  we  were  walking 

147 


LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

home  he  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  his 
wrath  at  the  chains  that  bound  him  burst 
forth.  We  spoke  of  the  rival.  We  could 
not  avoid  the  topic.  "Confound  that  fel- 
low!" said  my  friend.  "Confound  that  fel- 
low; he  can't  do  anything  but  fiddle!" 

Well,  I  speak  somewhat  in  my  friend's 
general  spirit,  although  I  hope  without  any 
bitterness  toward  any  particular  rival  student 
when  I  now  say:  "I  am  indeed  not  nearly 
as  much  of  a  reasoner  as  I  desire  to  be.  My 
skill  in  this  art  is  far  below  my  ambition. 
But,  poor  as  I  am,  reasoning  is  indeed  my  own 
art.  I  love  it.  I  prize  it.  I  cultivate  it. 
It  is  a  great  part  of  my  life.  And  yet,  —  and 
yet  I  still  insist,  —  let  that  reasoner,  that 
thoughtful  lover  of  ideals,  that  philosopher, 
if  such  there  be,  let  him  be  confounded  who 
cannot  do  anything  but  reason."  And  in 
the  same  way  I  say  to  you  of  the  thoughtful 
public :  Woe  unto  the  man  or  woman  who  can 
do  nothing  but  be  thoughtful. 

Yet  why  do  I  thus  warn  you?  Pedantry, 
it  will  be  said,  is  a  disease  of  professors  and 

148 


LIMITATIONS  OF  THE   PUBLIC 

of  bookish  men.  The  young,  the  ardent, 
and  the  general  company  of  the  faithful  to 
ideals  in  our  land,  whatever  their  faults, 
are  surely  not  pedants.  An  overcultivation 
of  the  merely  abstract  reason  is  not  a  be- 
setting sin  of  most  people.  I  reply  that 
there  are  many  forms  of  pedantry;  there  are 
many  grounds  for  being  on  one's  guard 
against  it.  The  misuse  of  the  reasoning 
process  enters  the  life  of  the  thoughtful  in 
more  ways  than  one.  The  love  of  abstract 
formulas,  of  mere  phrases,  or  of  falsely  sim- 
plified thoughtful  processes  is  not  confined  to 
the  professors. 

I  remember  once  discussing  with  a  young 
lady  who  was  a  college  student  of  psychology, 
some  points  in  the  text-book  of  my  honored 
colleague  Professor  William  James.  We  spoke 
in  particular  of  his  wonderful  chapter  on 
Habit,  so  full,  as  some  of  you  may  know, 
not  only  of  theoretical  wisdom,  but  of  whole- 
some practical  advice  about  the  formation 
and  control  of  habits.  I  asked  my  young 
friend  what  she  thought  of  this  chapter.  She 

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LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

replied,  with  adorable  naivete,  that  she  had 
found  this  chapter  full  of  advice  which  must 
be  very  valuable  indeed  "for  the  young  men 
for  whom  it  was  intended."  Well,  my  young 
friend  had  certainly  observed  part  of  the 
significance  of  Professor  James's  chapter; 
but  she  did  not  admit  having  observed  that 
his  comments  upon  Habit  apply  to  us  all, 
whether  young  men  or  not.  And  now,  just 
so,  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  my  word  about 
the  misuse  of  reason  and  the  false  love  of 
abstract  formulas  supposed  to  apply  only  to 
those  philosophers,  if  such  there  be,  for  whom 
it  was  indeed  also  intended.  The  lesson  is 
general,  and  human.  Especially  does  it 
apply  to  all  the  thoughtful  public  of  America. 
For  this  fault  of  a  too  abstract  thought- 
fulness  is  committed,  in  substance,  whenever 
people  try  to  reform  all  the  world,  or  even  any 
great  region  of  our  complex  lives,  by  insisting 
upon  any  one  set  of  phrases,  of  human  con- 
ceptions and  words,  which  the  individual  him- 
self has  found  somehow  dear  to  his  own 
consciousness.  Not  merely  the  partisans  of 

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LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

technical  reasoning,  but  the  apostles  of  intui- 
tion, too,  can  commit  our  fault,  whenever  they 
trust  in  any  mere  abstraction.  The  people 
of  one  idea,  the  people  to  whom  this  or  that 
single  device  for  saving  souls  is  alone  important, 
the  followers  of  fads,  —  these  fall  prey  to  this 
form  of  error.  They  mistake  the  power  to 
define  for  the  power  to  accomplish,  the  ab- 
straction for  the  life,  the  single  thought  for 
all  the  wealth  of  truth  that  our  human  world 
contains,  the  exercise  of  an  individual  reason 
for  the  whole  task  of  reforming  our  nature. 
And  does  not  our  modern  America,  both  in  the 
East  and  in  the  West,  really  suffer  too  much, 
nowadays,  from  mere  fads  ?  What  shall 
I  do  to  be  saved  ?  says  the  inquirer,  —  and 
the  answer  is,  —  "Practise  this  or  that 
system  of  mind  cure,  whose  teaching  can  be 
made  clear  in  just  so  many  lessons.  Follow 
Delsarte,  study  your  attitudes,  or  oratory,  or 
some  other  formal  accomplishment.  Accept 
this  or  that  doctrine  of  the  New  Thought." 
Now  the  people  who  cultivate  ideals  in  this 
spirit  often  suppose  themselves  to  be  free 

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LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

from  the  philosopher's  overwrought  love  of 
the  reason.  :<  We  follow,"  they  say,  "spiritual 
intuitions.  We  thus  avoid  abstractions  and 
wrangling."  "Yes,"  one  may  reply,  "but 
you  none  the  less  are  anxious  for  some  all- 
embracing  formula,  some  one  saving  principle 
that  shall  do  all  manner  of  work."  Now  the 
human  mind,  in  its  present  form  of  conscious- 
ness, is  simply  incapable  of  formulating  all 
its  practical  devices  under  any  one  simple 
rule.  We  have  to  learn  both  to  work  and  to 
wait.  We  have  to  learn  to  obey  as  well  as  to 
formulate.  What  saves  the  world  can  never 
be  any  one  man's  formulated  scheme.  Rest- 
less search  for  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
ideal  is  often  vain,  like  the  pioneer  idealism 
that  burns  the  forests  merely  to  see  what 
they  hide.  Let  the  forests  grow.  They  are 
better  than  the  empty  hillsides.  Much  of 
the  best  in  human  nature  simply  escapes  our 
present  definitions,  is  known  only  by  its 
fruits,  and  prospers  best  in  the  forest  shade  of 
unconsciousness.  But  a  thoughtful  lover  of 
ideals,  whether  a  philosopher  or  not,  is  of 

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LIMITATIONS   OF  THE   PUBLIC 

course  thinking  of  something  that  he  can 
formulate,  —  is  trying  to  make  his  ideas  con- 
scious, explicit,  teachable,  and  so  abstract. 
Hence  so  much  of  his  life's  business  as  he  best 
formulates  is  likely  for  that  very  reason  to 
be  narrow  when  compared  with  his  whole 
human  task  and  with  his  own  best  and  deepest 
aims.  We  are  primarily  creatures  of  instinct ; 
and  instinct  is  not  merely  the  part  of  us  that 
allies  us  with  the  lower  animals.  The  highest 
in  us  is  also  based  upon  instinct.  And  only 
a  portion  of  your  instincts  can  ever  be  formu- 
lated. You  will  be  able  in  this  life  to  tell 
what  they  mean  in  only  a  few  instances.  But 
your  life's  best  work  will  depend  upon  all 
of  your  good  instincts  together.  Hence  a 
great  part  of  your  life's  work  will  never  become 
a  matter  of  your  own  personal  and  private 
consciousness  at  all.  It  is  one  of  the  duties 
then  of  the  thoughtful  lover  of  ideals  to 
know  that  he  cannot  turn  into  conscious 
thinking  processes  all  of  his  ideal  activities. 
Accordingly,  he  must  indeed  cultivate  a  wise 
naivete,  and  that  alongside  of  his  reflective 

153 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

processes.  That  is  why  the  companionship  of 
children  becomes  the  more  useful  to  us  the 
more  thoughtful  we  are.  They  show  us  the 
beauty  of  unconsciousness,  and  help  us  to 
compensate  for  our  tendency  to  abstraction  by 
reminding  us  of  what  it  is  to  live  straight- 
forwardly. 

And  now,  I  say,  this  rule  of  mine  applies  to 
the  very  lover  of  ideals  whom  I  now  chance 
to  be  addressing.  We  who  teach  philosophy 
are  constantly  receiving  inquiries  from  people 
who  seem  not  to  know  how  little  in  human 
life  can  as  yet  be  reduced  to  any  abstractly 
stateable  formulas  at  all.  Teachers  inquire 
as  to  the  final  and  correct  theory  of  the  develop- 
ment of  the  human  mind,  as  to  the  precise 
number  of  powers  that  the  mind  possesses,  or 
as  to  the  one  secret  of  method  in  education. 
Newspapers  or  magazines  call  for  popular 
discussions  of  the  most  serious  and  complex 
issues,  as  if  these  could  finally  be  dealt  with 
in  any  brief  shape.  A  newspaper  once  asked 
me  to  contribute  to  a  so-called  symposium 
whose  problem  was  to  be  this :  What  character- 

154 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

istics  will  the  ideal  man  of  the  future  possess  ? 
As  1  only  knew  about  the  ideal  future  man 
this,  that  when  he  comes,  he  will,  as  in  him 
lies,  adequately  attend  to  his  own  business, 
1  felt  unable  to  contribute  anything  original 
to  the  proposed  discussion.  The  first  condi- 
tion of  knowing  how  to  think  about  ideal 
subjects  consists  in  being  aware  not  only  what 
can  be  profitably  formulated  at  all,  but  when 
and  for  what  purpose  a  given  formulation 
is  profitable.  When  I  visit  a  convalescent 
friend  who  is  beginning  to  feel  joyous  after  a 
long  illness,  I  do  not  in  general  discuss  the 
problem  of  evil.  When  I  too  am  to  enjoy  the 
company  of  my  friend,  I  do  not  first  undertake 
to  inquire  into  the  metaphysical  problem  as  to 
whether  my  friend  exists  at  all.  And  yet  just 
such  problems  have  their  place  in  philosophy. 
Now  just  so,  when  I  vote,  since,  as  it  chances, 
I  am  no  expert  in  sociology  or  in  economic 
problems,  I  generally  have  no  really  very 
good  reason  that  I  can  formulate,  in  a  conscious 
and  philosophical  way,  why  I  vote  just  as  I  do. 
I  vote  largely  on  grounds  of  sympathy  and  of 

155 


LIMITATIONS   OF   THE   PUBLIC 

instinct.  I  know  better  than  to  try  to  do  other- 
wise. If  I  tried  to  formulate  a  political  theory, 
it  would  be  a  very  poor  one;  for  I  have  no 
scientific  comprehension  of  politics,  no  philoso- 
phy adequate  to  directing  my  choice  of  parties. 
For  my  business  is  largely  with  other  branches 
of  philosophy.  I  am  a  member  of  one  or 
two  deliberative  bodies,  where  I  often  hear 
lengthy  debates  upon  complex  practical  ques- 
tions. The  debates  for  a  time  instruct  me; 
but  later  they  often  weary  me,  if  they  continue, 
without  instructing  me.  When  people  ask 
me  my  reason  for  my  own  vote  in  such  com- 
plex practical  cases,  or  wonder  why  I  am 
anxious  for  a  vote  to  be  reached,  I  often  say 
that  just  because  my  profession  is  reasoning, 
I  have  learned  to  know  some  of  the  limits 
of  the  art,  and  to  recognize  that  about  some 
complex  practical  issues,  after  a  certain  point, 
it  is  vain  to  reason  further,  since  only  personal 
reactions,  incapable  of  adequate  reflective 
formulation,  will  decide.  Hence  I  grow  weary 
of  the  much  speaking.  I  know  that  at  such 
times  I  seem  unreasonable;  but  I  merely 

156 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

want  to  vote;    and  more  formulations  will  in 
such  cases  make  me  no  wiser. 

People  often  say  that  men  act  upon  con- 
scious reasoning  processes,  and  women  upon 
intuitions  which  they  refuse  to  formulate. 
The  assertion  is,  like  most  proverbial  asser- 
tions, inadequate  to  the  wealth  of  life's  facts. 
Certainly  women  often  enough  act  with  a 
mysterious  swiftness  of  unconscious  wisdom. 
But  so  do  many  of  the  most  effective  men. 
I  have,  however,  often  observed  that  some 
educated  women,  some  women  who  enter 
public  life  as  reformers,  and  perhaps  too  many 
college-bred  women,  are  nowadays  troubled 
with  an  overfondness  both  for  mere  formu- 
las and  for  abstract  arguments  about  com- 
plex practical  issues  that  only  a  happy  in- 
stinctive choice  and  wholesome  sentiment 
can  ever  successfully  decide  so  long  as  we 
remain  what  we  are;  namely,  frail  and  ignorant 
human  beings,  who  see  through  a  glass  darkly. 
The  fault  of  being  overfond  of  abstrac- 
tions, or  of  trying  to  formulate  bad  reasons 
for  one's  instinctive  actions,  does  not  char- 

157 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

acterize  the  man  of  business  or  the  successful 
executive.  One  does  not  meet  this  fault  in 
the  market-place.  But  just  this  fault  does 
characterize  some  of  our  most  cultivated  and 
thoughtful  people  in  this  country.  And 
among  these  people  I  find  a  good  many 
intellectual  women. 

What  then  is  the  happy  medium?  Shall 
I  cease  to  think  ?  No,  not  so.  Be  thoughtful, 
reason  out  some  of  your  ideals  for  yourself. 
Know  something,  and  know  that  something 
well.  Have  the  region  where  you  have  a  right 
to  mistrust  your  instincts,  to  be  keenly  and 
mercilessly  critical,  to  question,  to  doubt,  and 
to  formulate,  and  then  devotedly  to  maintain 
and  to  teach.  But  let  that  region  be  the  little 
clearing  in  your  life's  forest,  —  the  place 
where  you  see,  and  comprehend,  and  are  at 
home.  Let  there  be  such  a  place.  You  need 
it.  It  may  be  art,  or  theology,  or  Greek,  or 
administrative  work,  or  politics,  or  philosophy, 
or  domestic  economy,  or  general  business, 
wherein  you  find  this  your  chosen  intellectual 
dwelling.  In  that  region  be  indeed  the  crea- 

158 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

ture  of  hard-won  insight,  of  clear  conscious- 
ness, of  definite  thinking  about  what  it  is 
yours  to  know.  There  the  formula  is  in  order. 
There  the  ideal  is  won  by  your  investigations, 
and  defended  by  your  arguments.  I  say, 
have  such  a  region.  We  need  those  who  know. 
In  that  region,  believe  only  when  you  know 
why  you  believe.  But  remember,  life  is  vast, 
and  your  little  clearing  is  very  small.  In  the 
rest  of  life,  cultivate  naivete,  accept  authority, 
dread  fads,  follow  as  faithfully  as  your  in- 
stinct permits  other  lovers  of  the  ideal  who  are 
here  wiser  than  you,  and  be  sure  that  though 
your  head  splits  you  will  never  think  out  all 
your  problems,  or  formulate  all  your  ideals 
so  long  as  you  are  in  this  life.  If  this  precept 
were  followed  in  this  country  there  would  be 
more  experts,  and  fewer  popular  crazes, 
more  effective  work  done,  and  less  time  wasted 
in  hopeless  efforts  at  general  reforms.  De 
te  fabula,  I  say  to  every  studious  soul  who  is 
disposed  to  be  too  thoughtful  rather  than 
wisely  effective.  Be  in  your  devotion  to  effec- 
tive leaders  relatively  uncritical  in  many  things, 

159 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE   PUBLIC 

in  order  to  be  thoughtfully  knowing  in  some. 
Be  childlike  in  much  of  life  in  order  to  become 
maturely  wise  in  some  things. 


If  you  are  once  aware  of  the  vanity  of 
trying  to  formulate  everything,  and  to  argue 
about  all  sorts  of  problems,  you  will  not  be 
tempted  to  pursue  unwisely  mere  novelties 
of  formulation  for  their  own  sake.  I  have 
spoken  more  than  once  of  the  feverish  desire 
for  new  ideas  in  which  our  thoughtful  public 
wastes  much  time.  An  entirely  false  inter- 
pretation of  the  doctrine  of  evolution  has  led 
some  people  to  imagine  that  in  any  department 
of  our  lives,  novelty  as  such  must  mean  true 
progress  toward  the  goal.  Hence  you  con- 
stantly hear  of  the  New  Education,  the 
New  Psychology,  the  New  Thought,  the 
New  Humanity,  and  whatever  else  can 
be  adorned  by  the  mere  prefixing  of  this 
adjective.  And  yet  people  do  not  speak 
adoringly  of  the  New  Blizzard,  or  of  the 

160 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

New  Weather  in  general.  We  all  of  us  have 
a  fondness,  not  altogether  wise,  for  the 
so-called  news  of  the  day,  quite  apart  from  its 
meaning;  and  the  newspapers  daily  verify 
for  us  the  ancient  fact  that  bad  men  lie  and 
steal  and  murder.  Such  news,  which  alas 
is  no  news,  but  the  ancient  sorrow  of  our  race, 
we  do  indeed  greet  with  a  certain  keenness  of 
interest  which  is  neither  altogether  rational 
nor  highly  ideal.  But  still  the  lovers  of  the 
ideal  do  not  in  such  cases  suppose  that  some 
new  form  of  burglary  must,  because  of  the 
fatal  law  of  evolution,  be  higher  in  nature,  or 
nobler,  or  more  worthy  of  study  than  the  older 
arts  of  the  thieves.  So  nobody  preaches  in 
praise  of  the  New  Burglary.  Nor  do  we 
suppose  that  evolution  implies,  as  any  univer- 
sal law,  that  the  New  Blizzard,  when  it  comes, 
is  an  object  worthy  of  admiration  above  all 
former  caprices  of  our  climate.  We  know 
that  if  news,  in  this  sense,  is  indeed  interesting, 
still  the  weather  is  the  weather,  and  the  thieves 
break  through  and  steal,  and  that  no  news 
makes  more  ideal  these  ancient  aspects  of  the 
M  161 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

visible  world.  Now  much  that  is  proposed 
as  new  in  thought,  or  in  the  less  exact  sciences, 
or  in  complex  arts  such  as  education,  has 
indeed  its  importance  as  embodying  real 
progress.  When  we  know  that  to  be  the  case, 
we  welcome  the  new,  not  because  it  is  merely 
new,  but  because  it  is  a  substantial  addition 
to  what  is  already  known  to  be  a  good.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  much  that  is  novel  in  opin- 
ion is  novel  only  as  the  latest  change  of  the 
weather  is  new.  And  I  warn  you,  not  indeed 
blindly  to  condemn,  but  cautiously  to  suspect 
doctrines  that  are  obliged  to  advertise,  very 
ostentatiously,  the  supposed  fact  that  they  are 
new,  in  order  to  get  a  public  hearing.  In 
really  progressive  sciences,  as  for  instance  in 
psychology  itself,  the  most  important  advances 
need  not  be  thus  loudly  heralded.  They 
make  their  own  way,  not  because  they  are 
merely  new,  but  because  they  are  maturely 
conceived  and  carefully  worked  out.  As  for 
the  world  of  faith,  it  is  as  vain  to  be  a  mere 
seeker  of  novelties  as  it  is  to  be  a  mere  con- 
servative. In  our  deeper  faiths  the  newest 

162 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

and  the  oldest  of  humanity's  deeds,  interests, 
and  experiences  lie  side  by  side.  What  is 
new  for  one  soul  is  not  new  for  another. 
Love  and  death  and  our  duty,  these  are  the 
oldest  and  the  newest  things  in  human  destiny. 
The  new  love  is  not  on  that  account  the  true 
one.  The  new  coming  of  death  teaches 
still  the  ancient  lessons  of  the  burial  psalm. 
The  new  duty  is  no  duty  unless  it  is  an  example 
of  the  most  venerable  of  truths,  "These 
things"  says  Antigone,  "are  not  of  to-day  or 
of  yesterday,  and  no  man  knows  whence  they 
came."  As  a  fact,  what  you  and  I  really 
most  need  and  desire  is  not  the  new,  nor  yet 
the  old.  It  is  the  eternal.  The  genuine 
lover  of  truth  is  neither  a  conservative  nor 
a  radical.  He  is  beyond  that  essentially 
trivial  opposition.  He  cares  nothing  for  the 
time  in  which  these  things  came  to  pass.  For 
him  their  interest  lies  in  their  truth.  Time 
is  but  an  image,  an  imitation  of  the  eternal. 
Evolution  itself  is  only  a  fashion  in  which  the 
everlasting  appears.  For  God  there  is  noth- 
ing new.  Before  the  mountains  were  brought 

163 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst  founded  the  earth, 
from  everlasting  thou  art  God. 

Be  docile  then;  be  ready  to  learn  what  is 
new  to  you.  But  avoid  this  disease  of  merely 
running  after  every  thought  that  loudly  pro- 
claims, or  every  plan  that  stridently  asserts, 
"Behold,  I  am  new."  Say  to  every  such 
claimant  for  your  reverence:  "Are  you  such 
that  you  can  grow  old  and  still  remain  as  good 
as  ever?  Then  indeed  I  will  trust  you." 

But  is  there  nothing,  then,  in  the  idea  of 
progress  ?  Are  there  not  certainly  progres- 
sive movements,  whose  new  stages  will  there- 
fore be  good?  Yes.  The  actual  discoveries 
of  empirical  science,  once  submitted  to  careful 
test,  do  indeed  form  a  progressive  series. 
Here  the  new,  once  assured  by  critical  veri- 
fication, is  good.  But  the  existence  in  any 
particular  field  of  inquiry  or  of  action  of  a 
progress  that  you  and  I  can  regard  as  certain, 
is  never  something  to  be  merely  presumed. 
The  presumption  is  valid  only  after  due 
examination.  Only  the  expert  can  decide 
then,  with  clearness,  whether  the  new  is  good. 

164 


LIMITATIONS    OF    THE    PUBLIC 

This  holds  in  finance  and  in  business  as  gen- 
uinely as  in  politics  or  in  religion.  Therefore 
it  is  only,  once  more,  within  the  relatively 
narrow  range  of  your  expertness,  that  you  can 
judge  whether  the  new  really  is,  as  such,  likely 
to  be  the  good.  Outside  of  that  range, 
favor  no  novelties  unless  they  appeal  to  your 
personal  sentiments,  to  your  most  humane 
sympathies,  to  your  best  cultivated,  but  still 
in  general  partly  unconscious,  tastes  and  in- 
stincts. In  brief,  then,  I  say  to  our  thoughtful 
public,  overcome  your  limitations,  first  by 
minute  and  faithful  study  of  a  few  things  and 
by  clearness  of  ideas  about  them;  then  by  child- 
like simplicity  in  the  rest  of  life,  by  faithfulness 
to  enlightened  leaders,  by  -resignation  as  op- 
posed to  restlessness,  and  above  all  by  work 
rather  than  by  idle  curiosity.  Organize 
through  a  willingness  to  recognize  that  we 
must  often  differ  in  insight,  but  that  what  we 
need  is  to  do  something  together.  Avoid  this 
restless  longing  for  mere  novelty.  Learn  to 
wait,  to  believe  in  more  than  you  see,  and  to 
love  not  what  is  old  or  new,  but  what  is  eternal. 

165 


IV 

THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

A   PSYCHOLOGICAL   STUDY   OF   THE    RELATIONS    OF 
CLIMATE    AND    CIVILIZATION 


IV 

THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

A   PSYCHOLOGICAL    STUDY    OF   THE    RELATIONS    OF 
CLIMATE1    AND    CIVILIZATION 

T  HAVE  been  asked  to  describe  some  of 
the  principal  physical  aspects  of  Cali- 
fornia, and  to  indicate  the  way  in  which  they 
have  been  related  to  the  life  and  civilization 
of  the  region.  The  task  is  at  once,  in  its  main 
outlines,  comparatively  simple,  and  in  its 
most  interesting  details  hopelessly  complex. 
The  topography  of  the  Pacific  slope,  now  well 
known  to  most  travellers,  is  in  certain  of  its 
principal  features  extremely  easy  to  charac- 
terize. The  broad  landscapes,  revealing  very 
frequently  at  a  glance  the  structure  of  wide 
regions,  give  one  an  impression  that  the  mean- 
ing of  the  whole  can  easily  be  comprehended. 
Closer  study  shows  how  difficult  it  is  to  under- 
stand the  relation  of  precisely  such  features 
to  the  life  that  has  grown  up  in  this  region. 

1  An  address    prepared   for    the    National    Geographical 
Society,  in  1898. 

169 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

The  principal  interest  of  the  task  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  is  our  American  character  and 
civilization  which  have  been  already  moulded 
in  new  ways  by  these  novel  aspects  of  the 
far  western  regions.  But  we  stand  at  the 
beginning  of  a  process  which  must  continue 
for  long  ages.  Any  one  interested  in  the  unity 
of  our  national  life,  and  in  the  guiding  of  our 
destinies  by  broad  ideals,  desires  to  conceive 
in  some  fashion  how  the  physical  features  of 
the  Pacific  Coast  may  be  expected  to  mould 
our  national  type.  Yet  thus  far  we  have,  as 
it  were,  only  the  most  general  indications  of 
what  the  result  must  be. 

In  endeavoring  to  distinguish  between  what 
has  already  resulted  from  physical  conditions 
and  what  has  been  due  to  personal  character, 
to  deliberate  choice,  or  to  the  general  national 
temperament,  or  to  what  we  may  have  to  call 
pure  accident,  one  is  dealing  with  a  task  for 
which  the  data  are  not  yet  sufficient.  We 
can  but  make  a  beginning. 


170 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 


The  journey  westward  to  California  is  even 
now,  when  one  goes  by  rail,  a  dramatic  series  of 
incidents.  From  the  wide  plains  of  the  states 
immediately  west  of  the  Mississippi  one  passes 
at  first  through  richly  fertile  regions  to  the  more 
and  more  arid  prairies  of  the  eastern  slope 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Then  come  either 
the  steep  ranges  or  the  wide  passes,  and  at  last 
what  used  to  be  called  the  Great  American  Des- 
ert itself,  that  great  interior  basin  of  the  rugged, 
saw- tooth  ranges,  where  the  weirdly  dreary  land- 
scape at  once  terrifies  the  observer  by  its  deso- 
lation, and  inspires  him  by  the  grandeur  of  its 
loneliness,  and  by  the  mysterious  peacefulness 
of  the  desert  wherein,  as  one  at  first  feels, 
nothing  like  the  complex  and  restless  life  of 
our  eastern  civilization  will  ever  be  possible. 

As  one  travels  by  the  familiar  central  route 
still  further  west,  one  reaches  the  valley  of 
the  Humboldt  River,  that  kindly  stream 
whose  general  westerly  trend  made  the  early 
overland  migration  possible.  At  the  end  of 

171 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

this  portion  of  the  route  rises  the  vast  wall  of 
the  Sierra  Range,  and  the  traveller's  heart 
thrills  with  something  of  the  strange  feeling 
that  the  early  immigrants  described  when, 
after  their  long  toil,  they  reached  the  place 
where,  just  beyond  this  dark  and  deathlike 
wall,  the  land  of  heavenly  promise  was  known 
to  lie.  Abrupt  is  the  ascent  of  this  great 
range;  slower  on  the  other  side,  the  descent, 
amidst  the  magnificent  canons  of  the  western 
slope,  to  the  plains  of  the  Sacramento  Valley. 
From  the  foot-hills  of  the  Sierra  one  used  to 
the  journey  could  easily  get  at  many  points  a 
wide  outlook  into  the  region  beyond.  The 
Coast  Range  in  the  far  distance  bounds  with 
its  blue  summits  the  western  view,  and  seems 
to  hide  the  ocean  for  whose  shore  one  already 
looks,  as  in  childhood  I,  who  then  lived  in  the 
Sierra  foot-hills,  and  had  never  seen  the  sea, 
used  longingly  to  look.  Through  the  valley 
beneath  winds  the  Sacramento,  fed  by  numer- 
ous tributaries  from  the  Sierra.  At  length,  as 
one  continues  the  railway  journey,  one  reaches 
the  plains  of  the  Sacramento  Valley  them- 

172 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

selves,  and  enters  that  interesting  region 
where  the  scattered  oaks,  separated  from 
one  another  by  wide  distances,  used  to  seem, 
I  remember  in  the  old  days,  as  if  set  out  by 
God's  hand  at  the  creation  in  a  sort  of  natural 
park.  One  crosses  the  valley,  —  the  shore 
of  San  Francisco  Bay  is  reached.  If  one  is 
travelling  in  summer,  the  intensely  dry  heat 
of  the  Sacramento  Valley  suddenly  gives  place 
to  the  cold  winds  of  the  coast.  Mist  and  the 
salt  air  of  the  sea  greet  you  as  you  approach 
the  rugged  hills  about  the  Golden  Gate,  and 
find  your  way  by  ferry  to  San  Francisco. 

The  region  that  to-day  is  so  swiftly  and  so 
easily  entered  was  of  old  the  goal  of  an  over- 
land tour  that  might  easily  last  six  months 
from  the  Missouri  River,  and  that  was  attended 
with  many  often-recorded  dangers.  Yet  the 
route  that  in  this  brief  introductory  statement 
we  have  followed,  is  nearly  identical  with  the 
one  which  first  guided  the  immigrants  to  the 
new  land.  And  in  part  this  route  was  identi- 
cal, namely,  as  far  as  Fort  Hall,  with  the  once 
familiar  Oregon  Trail. 

173 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

II 

Oregon  and  California,  the  Canaan  which 
long  formed  the  only  goal  of  those  who  trav- 
elled over  these  intermediate  regions,  are  de- 
termined as  to  their  characters  and  climate 
by  the  presence  beyond  them  of  the  great 
ocean,  and  by  the  trend  northward  and 
southward  of  the  elevated  ranges  of  moun- 
tains which  lie  west  of  the  central  basin.  On 
all  the  continents  of  the  world,  in  the  latitudes 
of  the  temperate  zones,  the  countries  that  lie 
on  the  lee  side  of  the  ocean  receive  the  world's 
prevailing  winds  tempered  by  a  long  course 
over  the  water.  Accordingly,  those  coun- 
tries very  generally  enjoy  a  relatively  steadier 
climate  than  those  which  lie  in  the  same  lati- 
tudes but  on  the  lee  side  of  the  great  conti- 
nental areas;  that  is,  toward  the  east.  But 
other  influences  join  themselves,  as  secondary 
causes,  in  a  number  of  cases,  to  this  general 
consequence  of  the  prevailing  west  winds  of 
the  temperate  zones.  The  good  fortune  of 
Oregon  and  California  as  to  their  climate 

174 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

depends,  in  fact,  as  the  meteorologists  now 
recognize,  partly  upon  the  steadying  influence 
of  the  vast  masses  of  water  that  there  lie  to 
windward,  partly  upon  the  influence  of  the 
mountain  masses  themselves  in  affecting  pre- 
cipitation, and  finally  upon  certain  great  sea- 
sonal changes  in  the  distribution  of  the  more 
permanent  areas  of  high  and  low  pressure,  — 
changes  which  have  been  elaborately  studied 
in  the  report  of  Lieutenant  Glassford  on  the 
climate  of  California  and  Nevada,  published 
as  a  government  document  in  1891. 

During  the  summer  months,  the  entire 
region  west  of  the  high  Sierra  Range  and  of  its 
continuation,  the  Cascade  Range,  is  com- 
paratively free,  and  in  the  southern  portion 
almost  wholly  free,  from  storm  disturbances. 
The  moisture-laden  winds  of  the  ocean  are 
then  deflected  by  areas  of  high  pressure,  which 
persist  off  the  coast,  and  the  moister  winds 
are  prevented  from  coming  into  close  relation 
to  the  mountains  and  discharging  their  mois- 
ture. On  the  other  hand,  during  the  months 
from  November  to  March,  and  in  Oregon  still 

175 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

later,  storm  areas  are  more  frequent,  and 
their  behavior  along  the  coast,  by  reason  of 
certain  areas  of  high  pressure  which  are  then 
established  in  the  regions  east  of  the  Sierra, 
is  rendered  different  from  the  behavior  more 
characteristic  of  the  well-known  storms  of  our 
eastern  coast.  The  resulting  conditions  are 
sometimes  those  of  long-continued  and  de- 
cidedly steady  precipitation  on  the  Coast 
Range  of  California,  and  on  the  western  slope 
of  the  Sierra,  as  well  as  throughout  the  Oregon 
region.  Thus  arise  the  longer  rains  of  the 
California  wet  season.  At  other  times  in  the 
rainy  season  the  storm  areas,  moving  back 
and  forth  in  a  more  variable  way  along  the 
coast,  but  still  unable  to  pass  the  area  of  high 
pressure  that  lies  farther  inland,  produce 
conditions  of  a  more  gently  and  variably 
showery  sort  over  a  wide  extent  of  country; 
as  the  rainy  season  passes  away  in  March 
and  April,  these  showers  grow  less  frequent 
in  California,  though  they  continue  in  Ore- 
gon much  later.  That  portion  of  Oregon 
which  lies  east  of  the  Cascade  Range  belongs, 

176 


THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

once  more,  to  the  decidedly  dry  regions  of  the 
western  country;  on  the  other  hand,  western 
Oregon  has  a  much  moister  climate  than 
California. 

In  consequence,  the  climate,  throughout 
this  entire  far  western  region,  is  character- 
ized by  a  very  sharp  distinction  between  the 
wet  and  dry  seasons;  while  otherwise,  within 
the  area  of  Oregon  and  California,  there  exist 
very  wide  differences  as  to  the  total  amount 
of  annual  precipitation.  Wide  extents  of 
country,  as,  for  instance,  the  San  Joaquin  Val- 
ley in  California,  have  needed  the  develop- 
ment of  elaborate  methods  of  irrigation.  The 
relative  variability  of  rainfall  in  the  more 
northern  regions  has  in  some  years  beset  the 
Sacramento  Valley  with  severe  floods.  And 
still  farther  north,  at  places  on  the  Oregon  and 
Washington  coast,  the  annual  precipitation 
reaches  very  high  figures  indeed.  If  one  then 
returns  to  the  other  extreme,  in  far  south- 
eastern California,  one  is  altogether  in  a  desert 
region.  Normally  the  wet  season  of  central 
and  southern  California,  even  where  the  rain- 
w  177 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

fall  is  considerable,  is  diversified  by  extended 
intervals  of  beautifully  fair  and  mild  weather. 
But  nowhere  on  the  Pacific  Coast  has  the 

variation  of  seasons  the  characters  customary 

if 

in  the  eastern  country.  A  true  winter  exists, 
indeed,  in  the  high  Sierra,  but  even  here  this 
season  has  a  character  very  different  from  that 
of  the  New  England  winter.  Enormous  falls 
of  snow  on  the  upper  Sierra  slopes  are,  in- 
deed, frequent.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there 
are  many  places  in  the  Sierra  where  an  early 
spring  very  rapidly  melts  away  these  masses 
of  snow  from  the  upper  foot-hills,  and  leads 
by  a  swift  transition  to  the  climate  of  the  Cali- 
fornia dry  season,  in  a  dramatic  fashion  that 
happens  to  be  prominent  amongst  my  own 
childhood  memories. 

In  general,  then,  in  California  and  Oregon, 
with  the  great  western  ocean  so  near,  the  rou- 
tine of  the  year's  climate  is  much  more  definite 
and  predetermined  than  in  our  Atlantic 
states.  In  western  Oregon,  where,  as  we  have 
said,  the  climate  is  far  more  moist,  the  rains 
begin  about  the  end  of  September  and  con- 

178 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

tinue  with  more  or  fewer  intermissions  until 
May  or  June.  The  dry  season  then  lasts 
steadily  for  three  or  four  months.  In  Cali- 
fornia the  dry  season  grows  longer,  the  rainy 
season  less  persistent  and  wealthy  in  watery 
gifts,  the  farther  south  we  go,  until  in  the 
far  south,  except  on  the  coast,  there  is  often 
a  very  short  intermission  in  the  year's  drought. 
So  much  for  the  climate  of  this  region  as  a 
whole.  Meanwhile,  there  are  numerous  local 
varieties,  and  amongst  these  more  distinctly 
local  influences  that  modify  the  climate  both 
in  the  wet  and  in  the  dry  seasons,  the  Coast 
Range  of  California  plays  a  very  important 
part.  This  range,  separated,  as  we  have 
seen,  from  the  Sierra  by  the  Sacramento  and 
San  Joaquin  valleys,  joins  its  masses  with 
those  of  the  Sierra  both  at  the  northern  end 
of  the  Sacramento  Valley  and  at  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley.  These 
two  rivers,  the  Sacramento  and  the  San  Joa- 
quin, flowing  the  one  southward  and  the 
other  northward,  join  their  waters  and  find 
an  exit  to  the  sea  through  San  Francisco  Bay, 

179 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

which  itself  opens  into  the  ocean  through  the 
Golden  Gate.  The  Sacramento  Valley  is 
thus  bounded  on  the  east  by  a  range  that 
varies  in  height  from  seven  thousand  to  four- 
teen thousand  feet.  The  Coast  Range  on  the 
west  has  an  elevation  varying  from  two  thou- 
sand to  four  thousand,  and  in  some  cases 
rising  to  five  thousand  feet.  The  elevation  of 
the  Coast  Range  is  thus  sufficient  to  affect, 
in  the  rainy  season,  the  precipitation  in  some 
localities,  although  the  greatest  rainfalls  of 
the  rainy  season  in  California  are  due  to  the 
influence  of  the  Sierra  upon  the  moisture- 
laden  winds  of  the  sea  during  the  passage  of 
the  areas  of  low  pressure.  But  decidedly 
more  marked  is  the  influence  of  the  Coast 
Range  during  the  summer  months,  upon  the 
determination  of  local  climate  along  the 
northern  Californian  coast.  Here  the  sum- 
mer, from  Monterey  northward,  is  along  the 
coast  decidedly  cold,  —  sea-breezes  and  fre- 
quent mists  marking  the  days  of  the  entire 
dry  season,  while  at  night  the  winds  usually 
fall,  and  the  cold  may  not  be  so  severely  felt. 

180 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

But  frequently  only  a  few  miles  will  separate 
these  cold  regions  of  the  coast  from  the  hot 
interior  of  the  Sacramento  Valley  or  from  the 
smaller  valleys  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
Coast  Range. 

To  sum  up  the  total  result  of  all  these  con- 
ditions, one  may  say  that  the  main  feature  of 
the  whole  climate,  apart  from  its  mildness,  is 
the  relatively  predictable  character  of  the 
year's  weather.  In  the  dryer  regions  of  the 
south,  wherever  irrigation  is  possible  and  has 
been  developed,  the  agriculturist  often  feels  a 
superiority  to  weather  conditions  which  makes 
him  rejoice  in  the  very  drought  that  might 
otherwise  be  regarded  as  so  formidable.  In 
central  California  one  is  sure,  in  advance,  of 
the  weather  that  will  steadily  prevail  during 
all  the  summer  months.  Agricultural  opera- 
tions are  thus  rendered  definite  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  when  the  drought  is  coming,  and  by 
the  freedom  from  all  fear  of  sudden  storms 
during  the  harvest  season. 

That  this  climate  is  delightful  to  those  who 
are  used  to  its  routine  will  be  well  known  to 

181 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

most  readers.  That  it  is  not  without  its  dis- 
agreeable features  is  equally  manifest  to  every 
tourist.  Nor  can  one  say  that  this  far  western 
country  is  free  from  decided  variations  in  the 
fortunes  of  different  years.  Where  irrigation 
is  not  developed,  great  anxiety  is  frequently 
felt  with  regard  to  the  sufficiency  of  the  annual 
rain  supply  of  the  rainy  season.  Years  of 
relative  flood  and  of  relative  drought  are  as 
well  known  here  as  elsewhere.  Nor  is  one 
wholly  free,  within  any  one  season,  from  un- 
expected and  sometimes  disagreeably  long- 
continued  periods  of  unseasonable  tempera- 
ture. A  high  barometer  over  the  region  north 
and  east  of  California  occasionally  brings  to 
pass  the  well-known  California  "northers." 
These  have,  in  the  rainy  season,  a  character 
that  in  some  respects  reminds  one  of  the  fa- 
miliar cold-wave  phenomena  of  the  east, 
although  the  effect  is  very  much  more  moder- 
ate. Frosts  may  then  extend  throughout 
northern  California,  may  beset  the  central 
Coast  Range,  and  may  on  occasion  extend 
far  into  the  southern  part  of  California  itself. 

182 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

But  when  the  "northers"  come  during  the 
dry  season,  they  are  frequently  intensely  hot 
winds,  whose  drought,  associated  with  hill  or 
forest  fires,  may  give  rise  to  very  memorable 
experiences.  But  these  are  the  inevitable 
and  minor  vicissitudes  of  a  climate  which  is, 
on  the  whole,  remarkably  steady,  and  which 
is  never  as  trying  as  are  the  well-known  varia- 
tions of  our  own  northeastern  climate.  The 
generally  good  effect  upon  the  health  of  such 
a  climate  is  modified  in  certain  cases  by  the 
possibly  overstimulating  character  of  the 
coast  summer,  which,  as  for  instance  at  San 
Francisco,  permits  one  to  work  without  thought 
of  holidays  all  the  year  round.  In  my  own 
boyhood  it  used  often  to  be  said  that  there 
were  busy  men  in  San  Francisco  who  had 
reached  that  place  in  1849,  and  who  had 
become  prominent  in  mercantile  or  other 
city  life,  and  who  had  never  taken  vacations, 
and  never  left  San  Francisco  even  to  cross 
the  bay,  from  the  hour  of  their  coming  until 
that  moment.  Of  course,  such  men  can  be 
found  in  almost  any  busy  community,  but 

183 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

these  men  seemed  rather  characteristic  of  the 
early  California  days  and  suggested  the  way 
in  which  a  favorable  climate  may  on  occasion 
be  misused  by  an  ambitious  man  to  add  to  the 
strains  otherwise  incident  to  the  life  of  a  new 
country. 

If  one  now  turns  from  the  climate  to  the 
other  aspects  of  our  region,  the  general  topog- 
raphy at  once  suggests  marked  features  that 
must  needs  be  of  great  importance  to  the  entire 
life  of  any  such  country.  California  and  Ore- 
gon are  sharply  sundered  from  one  another 
by  the  ranges  north  of  the  Sacramento  Valley. 
The  Washington  region,  about  Puget  Sound, 
is  destined  to  still  a  third  and  decidedly  sepa- 
rate life,  by  reason  of  its  relation  to  those  mag- 
nificent inland  waters,  and  by  reason  of  the 
two  high  ranges  which  bound  the  shores  of  the 
American  portion  of  Puget  Sound. 

And,  in  fact,  the  country  of  the  whole  Pa- 
cific Coast  may  be  regarded  as  geographically 
divided  into  at  least  four  great  regions:  the 
Washington  region,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Puget  Sound;  the  Oregon  region  with  the 

184 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

valley  of  the  Columbia;  the  northern  and 
central  California  region,  including  the  coast 
and  bay  of  San  Francisco,  together  with  the 
great  interior  valley ;  and,  finally,  the  southern 
region  of  California.  Both  the  social  devel- 
opment and  the  material  future  of  these  four 
great  sections  of  the  Pacific  Coast  must 
always  be  mutually  somewhat  distinct  and 
independent.  The  northern  and  central  Cali- 
fornia region,  the  third  of  those  just  enumer- 
ated, is  in  possession  of  the  largest  harbor 
between  Puget  Sound  and  the  southern  boun- 
dary of  the  United  States.  It  is,  therefore, 
here  that  the  civilization  of  the  west  was  des- 
tined to  find  its  first  centre.  Nor  can  this 
province  ever  have  a  social  destiny  indepen- 
dent of  that  of  San  Francisco  itself.  The 
southern  California  region,  while  not  sepa- 
rated from  central  and  northern  California  by 
any  very  high  barrier,  is  still  marked  off  by 
certain  features  due  to  the  amount  of  precipi- 
tation, and  to  the  smaller  harbors  of  this  part 
of  the  Pacific  Coast. 

I  have  already  mentioned  more  than  once 
185 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

the  breadth  of  landscape  characteristic  espe- 
cially of  central  California,  but  often  visible 
elsewhere  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  Here  is  a 
feature  that  has  to  do  at  once  with  the  mate- 
rially important  and  with  the  topographically 
interesting  features  of  this  land.  When  you 
stand  on  Mount  Diablo,  a  mountain  about 
three  thousand  eight  hundred  feet  high,  and 
some  fifteen  miles  east  of  San  Francisco  Bay, 
you  look  in  one  direction  down  upon  the  ocean 
and  upon  San  Francisco  Bay  itself,  while  in 
the  other  direction  you  have  in  full  sight  the 
Sierra  Range  beyond  the  great  valley,  and  vast 
reaches  of  the  interior  valley  itself.  Simi- 
larly, from  the  upper  foot-hills  of  the  Sierra, 
every  chance  elevation  that  overtops  its  neigh- 
bors a  little  gives  you  far-reaching  views  of 
the  interior  valley.  The  normally  clear  air 
of  a  great  part  of  the  year  determines  the 
character  and  sharp  outlines  of  these  broad 
views.  The  young  Californian  is  thus  early 
used  to  a  country  that,  as  it  were,  tells  its 
principal  secrets  at  a  glance,  and  he  some- 
times finds  his  eye  pained  and  confused  either 

186 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

by  the  monotonous  landscapes  of  the  prairies 
of  our  middle  west,  or  by  the  baffling  topog- 
raphy of  many  parts  of  New  England  or  of 
our  middle  states,  where  one  small  valley  at 
a  time  invites  one  to  guess  what  may  be  its 
unseen  relations  to  its  neighbors.  The  effect 
of  all  this  breadth  and  clearness  of  natural 
scenery  on  mental  life  cannot  be  doubted. 

Ill 

Of  climate  and  topography  this  very  sum- 
mary view  must  now  suffice.  We  turn  from 
nature  toward  life,  and  ask  ourselves  what 
bearing  these  geographical  features  have  had 
upon  the  still  so  incomplete  social  develop- 
ment of  California. 

In  1846,  at  the  outset  of  our  war  with 
Mexico,  the  Mexican  province  of  California 
extended  toward  the  interior,  at  least  on 
paper,  so  far  as  to  include  the  present  Nevada 
and  Utah;  but  only  the  California  coast  itself 
was  really  known  to  its  inhabitants.  Cali- 
fornia was  seized  by  the  American  fleet  at 
the  outset  of  the  war.  Its  value  to  our  coun- 

187 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

try  had  been  earlier  made  known  partly 
through  the  New  England  traders  who  dealt 
on  that  coast,  and  partly  through  the  appear- 
ance in  the  territory  of  American  settlers. 
The  famous  report  of  the  expedition  of  1844 
made  by  Lieutenant  Fremont  brought  to  a 
focus  the  popular  interest  in  the  importance 
of  the  entire  territory,  and  prepared  the  way 
for  the  excitement  aroused  by  the  discovery 
of  gold  in  1848. 

The  gold  excitement  determined  the  entire 
future  history  of  California;  and  here  of 
course  the  immediate  influence  of  the  physical 
upon  the  social  conditions  is  the  best  known 
fact  about  the  state.  The  golden  period  of 
California  may  be  regarded  as  filling  all  the 
years  between  1848  and  1860.  Or  perhaps 
a  still  better  dividing  line  might  be  made  in 
the  year  1866,  when  the  government  first  sur- 
veyed the  mineral  lands  of  California  and 
parted  with  its  title  to  these  lands,  so  that 
the  conditions  of  mining  ownership  were 
thenceforth  no  longer  primitive.  Up  to  that 
time  the  miners  of  California  had  worked  by 

188 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

government  consent  upon  land  to  which 
they  could  acquire  no  title,  so  that  their  right 
to  hold  land  was  entirely  due  to  miner's  cus- 
tom and  to  occupation,  both  of  which  were 
recognized  by  the  courts  of  the  state  in  deal- 
ing with  conflicts  amongst  miners.  With 
the  close  of  the  distinctively  mining  period, 
begins  the  agricultural  period  of  California. 
Gold  mining  has  of  course  continued  until 
the  present  day,  but  the  development  of  agri- 
culture soon  surpassed  in  importance  that  of 
all  other  industries  in  the  state. 

Nevertheless,  the  civilization  of  the  agri- 
cultural period  has  been  of  course  deter- 
mined in  large  part,  despite  the  change  of 
material  conditions,  by  the  traditions  of  the 
more  romantic  golden  period.  The  Cali- 
fornia pioneers  are  gradually  passing  away; 
but  as  the  fathers  and  the  early  Puritans  de- 
termined in  many  respects  the  future  of  New 
England,  so  the  miners,  together  with  their 
peers,  the  merchants  of  early  San  Francisco, 
lived  a  life  whose  traditions,  directly  due  to 
the  physical  conditions  under  which  they 

189 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

worked,  are  sure  to  be  of  long-continued,  per- 
haps of  permanently  obvious,  influence  in 
the  development  of  the  civilization  of  Cali- 
fornia. 

If  one  attempts  to  describe  in  what  way 
the  civilization  either  of  the  golden  days  or 
of  the  later  agricultural  period  has  been  af- 
fected by  the  geographical  conditions,  a  stu- 
dent of  my  own  habits  and  prejudices  feels 
at  once  disposed  to  pass  directly  to  the  inner 
life  of  the  Californian  and  to  ask  himself  what 
influence  the  nature  and  climate  of  such  a 
region  seem  to  have  upon  the  life  of  the  indi- 
vidual mind  and  body,  and,  indirectly,  upon 
the  social  order.  Here  of  course  one  treads 
upon  ground  at  once  fascinating  and  enor- 
mously difficult.  Generalization  is  limited 
by  the  fact  of  great  varieties  of  personal  char- 
acter and  type  with  which  we  are  dealing. 
But  after  all,  I  think  that  in  California  litera- 
ture, in  the  customary  expressions  of  Cali- 
fornians  in  speaking  to  one  another,  and,  to 
a  very  limited  degree,  in  the  inner  conscious- 
ness of  any  one  who  has  grown  up  in  Cali- 

190 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

fornia,  we  have  evidence  of  certain  ways  in 
which  the  conditions  of  such  a  region  must 
influence  the  life  and,  I  suppose  in  the  end, 
the  character  of  the  whole  community.  I 
feel  disposed,  then,  to  try  to  suggest  very 
briefly  how  it  feels  to  grow  up  in  such  a  cli- 
mate, to  live  in  such  a  region,  thus  separated 
by  wide  stretches  of  country  from  other  por- 
tions of  our  own  land  and  from  the  world  at 
large,  thus  led  by  the  kindliness  of  nature 
into  a  somewhat  intimate,  even  if  uncompre- 
hended,  relation  to  the  physical  conditions, 
and  thus  limited  to  certain  horizons  in  one's 
experience.  I  speak  of  course  as  a  native 
Californian,  but  I  also  do  not  venture  to 
limit  even  for  a  moment  my  characterization 
by  reference  to  my  own  private  experience. 
Californians  are  rather  extraordinarily  con- 
scious of  the  relation  between  their  home  and 
their  lives.  Newcomers  who  have  grown  up 
elsewhere  are  constantly  comparing  their 
natural  surroundings  with  those  that  they 
knew  before.  The  natives,  for  reasons  that 
I  shall  suggest  in  a  moment,  are  put  into  a 

191 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

relation  with  nature  which,  whether  they  are 
students  of  nature  or  not,  and  whether  they 
are  observant  or  not,  is  in  feeling  a  peculiarly 
intimate  relation.  The  consequence  may,  as 
I  have  already  suggested,  be  best  understood 
by  a  reference  to  some  of  the  wealthy  and 
varied  literature  that  California  has  already 
produced. 

Every  one  is  familiar  with  that  reflection  of 
the  change  of  seasons  in  poetical  literature 
which  we  find  first  in  the  classic  English  lit- 
erature, which  we  find  again  gradually  ap- 
pearing in  new  forms  in  adaptation  to  the 
more  special  conditions  of  our  American  cli- 
mate. New  England  nature  has  now  been 
perhaps  almost  too  frequently  characterized 
in  literary  art.  We  are  here  to  ask  how  the 
nature  of  California  comes  to  be  character- 
ized. Let  me  appeal  at  once  to  some  of  the 
poets  to  tell  us. 

The  most  familiar  account  of  the  California 
climate  in  literature  is  Bret  Harte's  charac- 
terization of  the  seasonal  changes  in  his  poem, 
"Concepcion  Argiiello."  The  scene  is  here 

192 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

at  the  Presidio  at  San  Francisco,  close  by  the 
Golden  Gate,  where  the  heroine  waited  for 
her  lover  during  the  long  years  that  the  poem 
describes. 

"  Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the  hollow  empty 

breeze  — 

Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the  vacant,  smiling  seas ; 
Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened  in  their  dusty  leather 

cloaks  — 
Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened  from  the  fringing 

plain  of  oaks; 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on  the  fierce  south- 
wester  tost, 
Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color,  and  then  vanished 

and  were  lost. 
So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted,  wet  and  warm  and  drear 

and  dry; 
Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers  —  half  a  year  of  dust  and 

sky." 

The  nature  which  is  thus  depicted  has  of 
course  many  other  aspects  besides  this  its 
fundamental  rhythm;  but  prominent  in  all 
the  literary  descriptions  is  the  stress  laid  upon 
the  coming  of  the  rains,  —  an  event  which 
occupies,  very  naturally,  the  same  place  in 

o  193 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

the  California  poet's  mind  that  the  spring 
occupies  elsewhere.  Only  what  this  spring- 
time breaks  in  upon  in  California  is  not  in 
general  cold,  but  drought.  It  is  here  not  the 
bursting  away  of  any  iron  barrier  of  frost, 
but  the  clearing  of  the  hazy  air,  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  rich  and  sudden  new  life,  the  re- 
moving of  a  dull  and  dry  oppression  from  the 
heart,  —  it  is  such  things  that  first  come  to 
mind  when  one  views  this  change.  A  stu- 
dent of  the  University  of  California  in  the 
year  1878,  a  lady  who  has  won  success  in  more 
than  one  branch  of  literature,  Miss  Millicent 
Shinn,  published  in  a  college  paper  of  that 
time  the  following  sonnet,  under  the  title  of 
"Rain."  The  poem  deserves  to  be  recalled 
here,  just  as  a  suggestion  of  the  relation 
between  nature  and  the  individual  mind 
under  such  conditions :  — 

"It  chanced  me  once  that  many  weary  weeks 
I  walked  to  daily  work  across  a  plain, 
Far-stretching,  barren  since  the  April  rain; 
And  now,  in  gravelly  beds  of  vanished  creeks, 
November  walked  dry  shod.      On  every  side 
194 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

Round  the  horizon  hung  a  murky  cloud,  — 
No  hills,  no  waters;    and  above  that  shroud 
A  wan  sky  rested  shadowless  and  wide. 
Until  one  night  came  down  the  earliest  rain; 
And  in  the  morning,  lo,  in  fair  array, 
Blue  ranges  crowned  with  snowy  summits,  lay 
All  round  about  the  fair  transfigured  plain. 

Oh,  would  that  such  a  rain  might  melt  away 

In  tears  the  cloud  that  chokes  my  heart  with  pain." 

The  heavy  air  of  the  close  of  the  dry  season, 
the  weary  waiting  for  the  autumn  rains,  the 
quick  change  as  the  new  life  came,  —  all 
these  things  bring  characteristically  before 
one  the  nature  life  of  central  California,  —  a 
region  of  the  half-arid  type,  where  the  con- 
ditions are  far  enough  from  true  desert  con- 
ditions, while  at  moments  they  simulate  the 
latter.  Yet  not  merely  this  fundamental 
rhythm  of  the  climate  so  easily  impressive  to 
every  sojourner,  arouses  the  sensitive  atten- 
tion of  the  life-long  inhabitant.  The  dwellers 
by  the  shores  of  San  Francisco  Bay  see  these 
seasonal  changes  in  the  midst  of  a  highly 
varied  landscape.  From  the  hill  slopes  on 
the  eastern  shores  of  that  great  harbor  one 

195 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

looks  toward  the  Golden  Gate.  North  of 
the  Gate  rise  the  rugged  heights  of  Mount 
Tamalpais,  to  a  point  about  twenty-six  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea  level.  South  of  the 
Gate,  San  Francisco  itself  adds  its  smoke  to 
the  ocean  mists,  and  its  hilly  summits  to  the 
generally  bold  landscape.  The  wide  ex- 
panse of  water,  stretching  north  and  south 
in  the  bay,  changes  color  under  the  daylight 
in  the  most  varied  manner,  according  as  cloud 
and  sunshine,  or  as  dawn,  morning,  afternoon, 
and  sunset  pass  before  you.  In  the  summer- 
time the  afternoon  ocean  mists  enter,  along 
with  the  steadily  rising  daily  wind  which  falls 
only  with  the  twilight.  One  of  California's 
most  successful  poets,  Miss  Coolbrith,  de- 
picts this  scene  in  her  poem  entitled  "Two 

Pictures." 

.  <*•  - 

MORNING 

"As  in  a  quiet  dream, 
The  mighty  waters  seem: 
Scarcely  a  ripple  shows 
Upon  their  blue  repose. 
196 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

The  sea-gulls  smoothly  ride 
Upon  the  drowsy  tide, 
And  a  white  sail  doth  sleep 
Far  out  upon  the  deep. 

A  dreamy  purple  fills 
The  hollows  of  the  hills; 
A  single  cloud  floats  through 
The  sky's  serenest  blue; 

And  far  beyond  the  Gate, 
The  massed  vapors  wait  — 
White  as  the  walls  that  ring 
The  City  of  the  King. 

There  is  no  sound,  no  word; 
Only  a  happy  bird 
Trills  to  her  nestling  young, 
A  little,  sleepy  song. 

This  is  the  holy  calm; 
The  heavens  dropping  balm; 
The  Love  made  manifest, 
And  near;  the  perfect  rest. 

EVENING 

The  day  grows  wan  and  cold; 
In  through  the  Gate  of  Gold 
The  restless  vapors  glide, 
Like  ghosts  upon  the  tide. 
197 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

The  brown  bird  folds  her  wing, 
Sad,  with  no  song  to  sing. 
Along  the  streets  the  dust 
Blows  sharp,  with  sudden  gust. 

The  night  comes,  chill  and  gray; 
Over  the  sullen  bay, 
What  mournful  echoes  pass 
From  lonely  Alcatraz! 

O  bell,  with  solemn  toll, 
As  for  a  passing  soul! 
As  for  a  soul  that  waits, 
In  vain,  at  heaven's  gates. 

This  is  the  utter  blight; 
The  sorrow  infinite 
Of  earth;    the  closing  wave; 
The  parting,  and  the  grave." 

Such  is  the  daily  drama  of  the  dry  season 
at  the  bay.  On  the  other  hand,  the  rainy 
season  itself  contains  some  tragedies  that  in 
no  wise  belong  to  the  eastern  winter.  There 
are  the  northers,  with  their  periods  of  relative 
chill  and  their  swift  winged  sternness;  and 
these  northers  have  often  been  celebrated  in 
California  verse.  But  apart  from  such  colder 

198 


I 
THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

periods,  the  loud  roaring  storms  and  heavy 
rains  are  often  likely  to  stand  in  a  curious 
contrast  to  the  abounding  life  of  vegetation 
which  the  rains  themselves  have  aroused.  It 
is  possible  to  cultivate  roses  in  one's  garden 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  year. 
These,  the  rainy  season  will  generally  encour- 
age in  their  blooming.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  stormy  wind  will  from  time  to  time  de- 
stroy them  with  its  own  floods  of  cruelty. 
Miss  Coolbrith  depicts  such  a  scene  in  the 
poem  entitled,  "My  'Cloth  of  Gold.'"  As 
in  tropical  countries,  so  here  the  long  storms 
seem  often  much  darker  and  drearier  by 
reason  of  their  warfare  with  the  rich  life 
amidst  which  they  rage. 

IV 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  many  instances  that 
might  be  given  of  the  emotional  reactions  of 
sensitive  minds  in  the  presence  of  California 
nature.  But  now  the  outer  aspect  of  nature 
unquestionably  moulds  both  the  emotions 
and  the  customs  of  mankind,  insensibly  af- 

199 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

fects  men's  temperaments  in  ways  which,  as 
we  know,  somehow  or  other  tend  to  become 
hereditary,  however  we  may  view  the  vexed 
question  concerning  the  heredity  of  acquired 
characters.  Moreover,  the  influence  of  nature 
upon  custom  which  every  civilization  depicts, 
is  precisely  the  kind  of  influence  that  from 
moment  to  moment  expresses  itself  psycho- 
logically in  the  more  typical  emotions  of  sensi- 
tive souls.  Thus,  one  may  observe  that  if 
we  are  considering  the  relation  between  civili- 
zation and  climate,  and  are  endeavoring  to 
speculate  in  however  vague  a  manner  upon 
the  future  of  a  society  in  a  given  environment, 
we  may  well  turn  to  the  poets,  not  for  a  solu- 
tion of  our  problem,  but  for  getting  signifi- 
cant hints.  Or,  to  put  the  case  somewhat 
boldly  otherwise,  I  should  say  that  the  vast 
processes  which  in  the  course  of  centuries 
appear  in  the  changes  of  civilization  due  to 
climate,  involve,  as  it  were,  tremendously 
complex  mathematical  functions.  If  it  were 
possible  for  us  to  state  these  stupendous 
functions,  we  should  be  possessed  of  the  secret 

200 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

of  such  social  changes.  Of  such  a  stupendous 
function,  a  group  of  poems,  expressing  as 
they  do  momentary  human  changes,  might 
be  called,  if  you  like,  a  system  of  partial,  and 
I  admit  very  partial,  differential  equations.  I 
do  not  hope  to  integrate  any  such  system  of 
equations,  or  to  gain  an  exact  view  of  the 
types  of  the  functions  from  a  consideration 
of  them,  and  of  course  I  admit  with  readiness 
that  I  am  using  only  a  very  rough  mathe- 
matical metaphor.  But  to  translate  the  mat- 
ter once  more  into  literal  terms,  the  tenden- 
cies of  the  moment  are  in  their  way  indications 
of  what  the  tendencies  of  the  ages  are  to  be. 
Now  what  all  this  poetry  in  general  psy- 
chologically means,  quite  apart  from  special 
moods,  is  that  the  Californian,  of  necessity, 
gains  a  kind  of  sensitiveness  to  nature  which 
is  different  in  type  from  the  sensitiveness  that 
a  severer  climate  would  inevitably  involve, 
and  different  too  in  type  from  that  belonging 
to  climates  mild  but  moist  and  more  variable. 
In  the  first  place,  as  you  see,  such  a  climate 
permits  one  to  be  a  great  deal  out  of  doors  in 

201 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

the  midst  of  nature.  It  permits  wide  views, 
where  the  outlines  are  vast  and  in  general 
clear.  As,  when  you  are  on  a  steamer  it  is 
a  matter  of  some  skill  to  understand  what  are 
the  actual  conditions  of  wind  and  sea,  while, 
when  you  are  on  a  sailing  vessel  you  con- 
stantly feel  both  the  wind  and  the  sea  with  a 
close  intimacy  that  needs  no  technical  knowl- 
edge to  make  it  at  least  appreciated,  so,  in 
the  case  of  such  a  climate  as  the  one  of  Cali- 
f  fornia,  your  relations  with  nature  are  essen- 
tially intimate,  whether  you  are  a  student  of 
nature  or  not.  Your  dependence  upon  nature 
you  feel  in  one  sense  more,  and  in  another 
sense  less,  —  more,  because  you  are  more 
constantly  in  touch  with  the  natural  changes 
of  the  moment;  less,  because  you  know  that 
nature  is  less  to  be  feared  than  under  severer 
conditions.  And  this  intimacy  with  nature 
means  a  certain  change  in  your  relations  to 
your  fellow-men.  You  get  a  sense  of  power 
from  these  wide  views,  a  habit  of  personal 
independence  from  the  contemplation  of  a 
world  that  the  eye  seems  to  own.  Especially 

202 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

in    country    life    the    individual    Californian 
consequently  tends  toward   a  certain   kind  of 
independence  which  I  find  in  a  strong  and 
subtle  contrast  to  the  sort  of  independence 
that,  for  instance,  the  New  England  farmer 
cultivates.     The  New  England  farmer  must 
fortify  himself  in  his  stronghold  against  the 
seasons.     He  must  be  ready  to  adapt  himself^;  ^ 
to  a  year  that  permits  him  to  prosper  onlyVw 
upon   decidedly   hard   terms.     But  the   Call-  ^* 
fornia   country   proprietor   can   have,    during 
the  drought,  more  leisure,  unless,  indeed,  his 
ambition  for  wealth  too  much  engrosses  him. 
His  horses  are  plenty  and  cheap.     His  fruit 
crops  thrive  easily.     He  is  able  to  supply  his  v 
table   with  fewer   purchases,   with  less   com- 
mercial dependence.     His  position  is,   ther 
fore,  less  that  of  the  knight  in  his  castle  and 
more  that  of  the  free  dweller  in  the  summer 
cottage,  who  is  indeed  not  at  leisure,  but  can 
easily  determine  how  he  shall  be  busy.     It  is 
of   little    importance    to    him    who    his    next 
neighbor    is.     At    pleasure    he    can    ride    or 
drive  a  good  way  to  find  his  friends;    can 

203 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

choose,  like  the  southern  planter  of  former 
days,  his  own  range  of  hospitality;  can  de- 
vote himself,  if  a  man  of  cultivation,  to  read- 
ing during  a  good  many  hours  at  his  own 
choice,  or,  if  a  man  of  sport,  can  find  during 
a  great  part  of  the  year  easy  opportunities 
for  hunting  or  for  camping  both  for  himself 
and  for  the  young  people  of  his  family.  In 
the  dry  season  he  knows  beforehand  what 
engagements  can  be  made,  without  regard 
to  the  state  of  the  weather,  since  the  state  of 
the  weather  is  predetermined. 

The  free  life  and  interchange  of  hospi- 
tality, so  often  described  in  the  accounts  of 
early  California,  has  left  its  traces  in  the 
country  life  of  California  at  the  present  day. 
Very  readily,  if  you  have  moderate  means, 
you  can  create  your  own  quiet  estate  at  a 
convenient  distance  from  the  nearest  town. 
You  may  cover  your  house  with  a  bower  of 
roses,  surround  yourself  with  an  orchard, 
quickly  grow  eucalyptus  as  a  shade  tree,  and 
with  nearly  equal  facility  multiply  other  shade 
trees.  You  become,  on  easy  terms,  a  pro- 

204 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

prietor,  with  estate  and  home  of  your  own. 
Now  all  this  holds,  in  a  sense,  of  any  mild  cli- 
mate.    But   in    California   the   more   regular 
routine  of  wet  and  dry  seasons  modifies  and 
renders  more  stable  the  general  psychological 
consequences.     All  this   is  encouraging  to   a   i  \ 
kind  of  harmonious  individuality  that  already  / 
tends  in  the   best  instances    toward  a  some- 
what Hellenic  type. 

A  colleague  of  my  own,  a  New  Englander 
of  the  strictest  persuasion,  who  visited  Cali- 
fornia for  a  short  time  when  he  was  himself 
past  middle  life,  returned  enthusiastic  with 
the  report  that  the  California  countrymen 
seemed  to  him  to  resemble  the  ancient,  yes, 
even  the  Homeric,  Greeks  of  the  Odyssey. 
The  Californians  had  their  independence  of 
judgment;  their  carelessness  of  what  a  bar- 
barian might  think,  so  long  as  he  came  from 
beyond  the  border;  their  apparent  freedom 
in  choosing  what  manner  of  men  they  should 
be;  their  ready  and  confident  speech.  All 
these  things  my  friend  at  once  noticed  as 
characteristic.  Thus  different  in  type  are 

205 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

these  country  proprietors  from  the  equally 
individual,  the  secretively  independent,  the 
silently  conscientious  New  England  villagers. 
They  are  also  quite  different  from  the  typical 
southern  proprietors.  From  the  latter  they 
differ  in  having  less  tendency  to  respect  tra- 
ditions, and  in  laying  much  less  stress  upon 
formal  courtesies.  The  Californian,  like  the 
westerner  in  general,  is  likely  to  be  somewhat 
abrupt  in  speech,  and  his  recent  coming  to 
the  land  has  made  him  on  the  whole  quite  in- 
different to  family  tradition.  I  myself,  for 
instance,  reached  twenty  years  of  age  without 
ever  becoming  clearly  conscious  of  what  was 
meant  by  judging  a  man  by  his  antecedents, 
a  judgment  that  in  an  older  and  less  isolated 
community  is  natural  and  inevitable,  and 
that,  I  think,  in  most  of  our  western  com- 
munities, grows  up  more  rapidly  than  it  has 
grown  up  in  California,  where  the  geographi- 
cal isolation  is  added  to  the  absence  of  tra- 
dition. To  my  own  mind,  in  childhood, 
every  human  being  was,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions, whatever  he  happened  to  be.  He- 

206 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

reditary  distinctions  I  appreciated  only  in 
case  of  four  types  of  humanity.  There  were 
the  Chinamen,  there  were  the  Irishmen,  there 
were  the  Mexicans,  and  there  were  the  rest  of 
us.  Within  each  of  these  types,  every  man, 
to  my  youthful  mind,  was  precisely  what  God 
and  himself  had  made  him,  and  it  was  dis- 
tinctly a  new  point  of  view  to  attach  a  man 
to  the  antecedents  that  either  his  family  or 
his  other  social  relationships  had  determined 
for  him.  Now,  I  say,  this  type  of  individu- 
ality, known  more  or  less  in  our  western 
communities,  but  developed  in  peculiarly  high 
degree  in  California,  seems  to  me  due  not 
merely  to  the  newness  of  the  community,  and 
not  merely  to  that  other  factor  of  geographi- 
cal isolation  that  I  just  mentioned,  but  to  the 
relation  with  nature  of  which  we  have  already 
spoken.  It  is  a  free  and  on  the  whole  an 
emotionally  exciting,  and  also  as  we  have 
said,  an  engrossing  and  intimate  relation. 

In  New  England,  if  you  are  moody,  you 
may  wish  to  take  a  long  walk  out-of-doors, 
but  that  is  not  possible  at  all  or  even  at  most 

207 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

seasons.  Nature  may  not  be  permitted  to 
comfort  you.  In  California,  unless  you  are 
afraid  of  the  rain,  nature  welcomes  you  at 
almost  any  time.  The  union  of  the  man  and 
the  visible  universe  is  free,  is  entirely  un- 
checked by  any  hostility  on  the  part  of  nature, 
and  is  such  as  easily  fills  one's  mind  with 
wealth  of  warm  experience.  Our  poets  just 
quoted  have  laid  stress  upon  the  directly  or 
symbolically  painful  aspects  of  the  scene. 
But  these  are  sorrows  of  a  sort  that  mean  pre- 
cisely that  relation  with  nature  which  I  am 
trying  to  characterize,  not  the  relation  of  hos- 
tility but  of  closeness.  And  this  is  the  sort 
of  closeness  determined  not  merely  by  mild 
weather,  but  by  long  drought  and  by  the  rela- 
tive steadiness  of  all  the  climatic  conditions. 
Now,  I  must  feel  that  such  tendencies  are 
of  vast  importance,  not  merely  to-day  but 
for  all  time.  They  are  tendencies  whose 
moral  significance  in  the  life  of  California  is 
of  course  both  good  and  evil,  since  man's  rela- 
tions with  nature  are,  in  general,  a  neutral 
material  upon  which  ethical  relations  may 

208 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

be  based.  If  you  are  industrious,  this  inti- 
macy with  nature  means  constant  coopera- 
tion, a  cooperation  never  interrupted  by  frozen 
ground  and  deep  snow.  If  you  tend  to  idle- 
ness, nature's  kindliness  may  make  you  all 
the  more  indolent,  and  indolence  is  a  possible 
enough  vice  with  the  dwellers  in  all  mild  cli- 
mates. If  you  are  morally  careless,  nature 
encourages  your  freedom,  and  tends  in  so 
far  to  develop  a  kind  of  morale  frequently 
characteristic  of  the  dwellers  in  gentle  cli- 
mates. Yet  the  nature  of  California  is  not 
enervating.  The  nights  are  cool,  even  in 
hot  weather;  owing  to  the  drought  the  mild- 
ness of  the  air  is  not  necessarily  harmful. 
Moreover,  the  nature  that  is  so  uniform  also 
suggests  in  a  very  dignified  way  a  regularity 
of  existence,  a  definite  reward  for  a  definitely 
planned  deed.  Climate  and  weather  are  at 
their  best  always  capricious,  and,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  variations  of  the  California  seasons 
have  involved  the  farmers  in  much  anxiety, 
and  in  many  cases  have  given  the  farming 
business,  as  carried  on  in  certain  California 
*  209 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

communities,  the  same  sort  of  gambling  ten- 
dency that  originally  vitiated  the  social  value 
of  the  mining  industry.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  as  the  conditions  grew  more  stable,  as 
agriculture  developed,  vast  irrigation  enter- 
prises introduced  once  more  a  conservative 
tendency.  Here  again  for  the  definite  deed 
nature  secures  a  definite  return.  In  regions 
subject  to  irrigation,  man  controls  the  weather 
as  he  cannot  eslewhere.  He  is  independent 
of  the  current  season.  And  this  tendency  to 
organization  —  a  tendency  similar  to  the  one 
that  was  obviously  so  potent  in  the  vast 
ancient  civilization  of  Egypt,  —  is  present  under 
Californian  conditions,  and  will  make  itself 
felt. 

Individuality,  then,  but  of  a  peculiar  type, 
and  a  tendency  despite  all  this  individualism 
toward  agricultural  conservatism  and  a  defi- 
nite social  organization  —  these  are  already 
the  results  of  this  climate. 

V 

I  have  spoken  already  several  times  of  the 

210 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

geographical  isolation  of  this  region.  This 
has  been  a  factor  that  was  felt  of  course  in  the 
social  life  from  the  very  outset,  and  more  in 
the  early  days  than  at  present.  To  be  sure, 
it  was  never  without  its  compensating  features. 
It  shows  its  influences  in  a  way  that  varies 
with  pretty  definite  periods  of  California  his- 
tory. In  the  earliest  days,  before  the  new- 
comers in  California  supposed  that  agricul- 
ture was  possible  on  any  large  scale,  nearly 
everything  was  imported.  Butter,  for  in- 
stance, was  sent  around  the  Horn  to  San 
Francisco.  And  throughout  the  early  years 
most  of  the  population  felt,  so  to  speak, 
morally  rooted  in  the  eastern  communities 
from  which  they  had  sprung.  This  tendency 
retarded  for  a  long  time  the  development  of 
California  society,  and  made  the  pioneers 
careless  as  to  the  stability  of  their  social 
structure ;  encouraged  corrupt  municipal  ad- 
ministration in  San  Francisco;  gave  excuse 
for  the  lynching  habit  in  the  hastily  organized 
mining  communities.  But  a  reaction  quickly 
came.  After  the  general  good  order  which 

211 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

as  a  fact  characterized  the  year  1849  had 
gradually  given  place,  with  the  increase  of 
population,  to  the  disorders  of  1851  and  to 
the  municipal  errors  of  the  years  between 
1850  and  1856  in  the  city  of  San  Francisco, 
there  came  a  period  of  reform  and  of  growing 
conservatism  which  marked  all  the  time  of  the 
later  mining  period  and  of  the  transition  to 
the  agricultural  period.  During  these  years 
many  who  had  come  to  California  without 
any  permanent  purpose  decided  to  become 
members  of  the  community,  and  decided  in 
consequence  to  create  a  community  of  which 
it  was  worth  while  to  be  a  member.  The 
consequence  was  the  increase  of  the  influence 
of  the  factor  of  geographical  isolation  in  its 
social  influence  upon  the  life  of  California. 
The  community  became  self-conscious,  inde- 
pendent, indisposed  to  take  advice  from  with- 
out, very  confident  of  the  future  of  the  state 
and  of  the  boundless  prosperity  soon  to  be 
expected;  and  within  the  years  between  1860 
and  1870  a  definite  local  tradition  of  California 
life  was  developed  upon  the  basis  of  the  memo- 

212 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

ries  and  characters  that  had  been  formed  in 
the  early  days.  The  consequence  was  a  pro- 
vincial California,  whose  ideals  at  last  assumed 
that  form  of  indifference  to  the  barbarians 
beyond  the  border  which  my  friend  noticed 
as  surviving  even  to  the  time  of  the  visit  of 
which  I  have  spoken. 

But  the  completion  of  the  transcontinental 
railway  in  1869  introduced  once  more  the 
factor  of  physical  connection  with  the  East, 
and  of  commercial  rivalry  with  the  investors 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley  who  now  undertook, 
along  with  the  capitalists  of  California,  to 
supply  the  mining  population  of  the  still  newer 
Rocky  Mountain  regions.  On  the  whole,  I 
should  say  that  for  a  good  while  the  provincial 
California,  in  the  rather  extremer  sense  of 
the  tradition  of  the  sixties  and  early  seventies, 
held  its  own  against  the  influence  of  the  rail- 
way. But  the  original  railway  did  not  re- 
main alone.  Other  transcontinental  lines 
developed.  The  southern  portion  of  the  state, 
long  neglected  during  the  early  days,  became, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  eighties,  the  theatre 

213 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

of  a  new  immigration  and  of  a  new  and  on 
the  whole  decidedly  more  eastern  civilization. 
There  has  resulted  since  that  time  a  third 
stage  of  California  life  and  society,  a  stage 
marked  by  a  union  of  the  provincial  in- 
dependence of  the  middle  period  with  the 
complex  social  influences  derived  from  the 
East  and  from  the  world  at  large.  The  Cali- 
fornia of  to-day  is  still  the  theatre  of  the 
struggle  of  these  opposing  forces. 

VI 

It  remains  necessary  to  characterize  more 
fully  the  way  in  which  the  consequences  of 
the  early  days,  joined  to  the  geographical 
factors  upon  which  we  have  already  laid 
stress,  have  influenced  the  problems  of  Cali- 
fornia life  and  society.  From  the  very  outset, 
climate  and  geographical  position,  and  the 
sort  of  life  in  which  men  were  engaged,  have 
encouraged  types  of  individuality  whose 
subtle  distinction  from  those  elsewhere  to  be 
found  we  have  already  attempted  in  a  very 
inadequate  fashion  to  suggest.  Accordingly, 

214 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

from  the  first  period  down  to  the  present 
time,  the  California  community  has  been  a 
notable  theatre  for  the  display  of  political 
and  financial,  and,  on  occasion,  of  intellectual 
individuality  of  decidedly  extraordinary 
types.  The  history  of  both  earlier  and  later 
California  politics  has  been  a  very  distinctly 
personal  history.  The  political  life  of  the 
years  before  the  war  had  as  their  most  pic- 
turesque incident  the  long  struggle  for  the 
United  States  Senatorship  carried  on  between 
David  Broderick  and  William  Gwin.  This 
contest  involved  personalities  far  more  than 
principles.  Gwin  and  Broderick  were  both 
of  them  extremely  picturesque  figures,  — 
the  one  a  typical  Irish-American,  the  other  a 
Southerner.  The  story  of  their  bitter  warfare 
is  a  familiar  California  romance.  The  tragic 
death  of  Broderick,  in  duel  with  the  once 
notorious  Terry,  is  a  tale  that  long  had  a  de- 
cidedly national  prominence.  Terry  him- 
self is  an  example  of  a  type  of  individuality 
not  elsewhere  unknown  in  border  life,  but 
developed  under  peculiarly  Californian  con- 

215 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

ditions.  Terry  was,  very  frankly,  a  man  of 
blood.  Regarding  him  as  a  man  of  blood, 
one  finds  him  in  many  ways,  and  within  his 
own  limits,  an  interesting,  even  a  conscien- 
tious and  attractive  personality.  He  was  at 
one  time  upon  the  Supreme  Bench  of  the 
state  of  California.  He  warred  with  the 
Vigilance  Committee  of  1856  in  a  manner 
that  certainly  wins  one's  respect  for  his  skill 
in  bringing  that  organization  into  a  very 
difficult  position.  He  carried  on  this  warfare 
both  as  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  and  as 
wielder  of  a  bowie  knife.  When  he  slew 
Broderick,  he  did  so  in  a  fashion  that,  so  far 
as  the  duelling  code  permitted,  was  perfectly 
fair.  He  lived  for  years  with  a  disposition 
to  take  the  unpopular  side  of  every  question, 
to  fight  bitterly  for  causes  for  which  no  other 
man  cared,  and  it  was  precisely  for  such  a 
cause  that  he  finally  died.  His  attempted 
assault  upon  Judge  Field,  and  the  contro- 
versy that  led  thereto,  and  that  resulted  in 
Terry's  death,  was,  a  few  years  since,  in  every- 
body's memory. 

216 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

It  would  be  wholly  wrong  to  conceive  Cali- 
fornia individuality  as  at  all  fairly  represented 
by  a  border  type  such  as  Terry's.  Yet  when 
one  looks  about  in  California  society  and  poli- 
tics, one  finds  even  at  the  present  day  pictur- 
esque personalities  preserving  their  pictur- 
esqueness  amidst  various  grades  of  nobility 
and  baseness,  in  a  fashion  more  character- 
istic, I  think,  than  is  customary  in  most  of 
our  newer  communities.  The  nobler  sort 
of  picturesque  personality  may  be  the  public 
benefactor,  like  Lick  or  Sutro.  He  may  be 
the  social  reformer  of  vast  ideals,  like  Henry 
George.  Or  again  the  baser  individual  may 
be  the  ignorant  demagogue  of  the  grade  of 
Dennis  Kearney.  Your  California  hero  may 
be  the  chief  of  the  Vigilance  Committee  of 
1856,  or  some  other  typical  and  admired  pioneer, 
growing  old  in  the  glory  of  remembered  early 
deeds.  He  may  be  the  railway  magnate, 
building  a  transcontinental  line  under  all 
sorts  of  discouragements,  winning  a  great 
fortune,  and  dying  just  as  he  founds  a  uni- 
versity. But  in  all  these  phases  he  remains 

217 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

the  strong  individual  type  of  man  that  in  a 
great  democracy  is  always  necessary.  It  is 
just  this  type  that,  as  some  of  us  fear,  the  con- 
ditions of  our  larger  democracy  in  more  east- 
ern regions  tend  far  too  much  to  eliminate. 
In  California,  such  individuality  is  by  no 
means  yet  eliminated. 

There  is  a  symptom  of  this  fact  which  I 
have  frequently  noted,  both  while  I  was  a 
continuous  resident  of  California  and  from 
time  to  time  since.  Individualistic  communi- 
ties are  almost  universally,  and  paradoxically 
enough,  communities  that  are  extremely  cruel 
to  individuals.  It  is  so  in  a  debating  club, 
where  individuality  is  encouraged,  but  where 
every  speaker  is  subject  to  fierce  criticism. 
Now,  this  is  still  so  in  California  to  an  extent 
which  surprises  even  one  who  is  used  to  the 
public  controversies  of  some  of  our  eastern 
cities.  The  individual  who,  by  public  action 
or  utterance,  rises  above  the  general  level  in 
California,  is  subject  to  a  kind  of  attack 
which  strong  men  frequently  enjoy,  but  which 
even  the  stranger  finds  on  occasion  peculiarly 

218 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

merciless.  That  absence  of  concern  for  a 
man's  antecedents  of  which  I  before  spoke, 
contributes  to  this  very  mercilessness.  A 
friend  once  remarked  to  me  that  in  California, 
Phillips  Brooks,  had  he  appeared  there  before 
reaching  the  very  height  of  his  reputation, 
would  have  had  small  chance  to  win  a  hearing, 
so  little  reverence  would  have  been  felt  for 
the  mere  form  of  the  causes  that  he  maintained. 
This  remark  was  perhaps  unfair,  since  a 
stranger  preacher  —  Thomas  Starr  King, 
—  gained  in  early  California  days,  at  about 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  a  very  great  public 
reputation  in  a  short  time,  received  great 
sympathy,  and  had  a  mighty  influence.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  perfectly  certain  that 
the  public  man  who  intends  to  maintain  his 
ideals  in  California  will  have  to  do  so  under 
fire,  and  will  have  to  be  strong  enough  to 
bear  the  fire.  His  family,  or  the  clubs  to 
which  he  belongs,  the  university  that  he  repre- 
sents, the  church  that  supports  him,  —  none  of 
these  factors  will  in  such  a  community  easily 
determine  his  standing.  He  works  in  a  commu- 

219 


THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

nity  where  the  pioneer  tradition  still  remains, 
—  the  tradition  of  independence  and  of  dis- 
trust toward  enthusiasm.  For  one  feels  in 
California,  very  keenly,  that  enthusiasm  may 
after  all  mean  sham,  until  one  is  quite  sure 
that  it  has  been  severely  tested.  And  this 
same  community,  so  far  as  its  country  popu- 
lation is  concerned,  is  made  up  of  persons 
who,  whether  pioneers  or  newcomers,  live  in 
the  aforesaid  agricultural  freedom,  in  easy 
touch  with  nature,  not  afraid  of  the  senti- 
ments of  the  crowd,  although  of  course  dis- 
posed, like  other  human  beings,  to  be  affected 
by  a  popular  cry  in  so  far  as  it  attacks  men 
or  declares  new  ideals  insignificant.  It  is 
much  more  difficult  to  arouse  the  enthusiastic 
sympathy  of  such  people  than  it  is,  in  case 
one  has  the  advantage  of  the  proper  social 
backing,  to  affect  the  public  opinion  of  a  more 
highly  organized  social  order  in  a  less  isolated 
region. 

And  now  we  have  seen  the  various  ways  in 
which  this  sort  of  individuality  is  a  product  of 
the  natural  features  of  the  state  as  well  as  of 

220 


THE   PACIFIC  COAST 

those  early  conditions  which  themselves  were 
determined  by  geographical  factors.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  addition  to  this  prevalence  of 
individuality  and  this  concomitant  severity 
of  the  judgment  of  prominent  individuals, 
there  are  social  conditions  characteristic  of 
San  Francisco  which  can  also  be  referred  to 
geographical  and  climatic  factors.  Early  in 
the  development  of  San  Francisco  a  difficulty 
in  the  education  of  the  young  appeared 
which,  as  I  fancy,  has  not  yet  been  removed. 
This  difficulty  had  to  do  with  the  easy  de- 
velopment of  vagrancy  in  city  children.  Va- 
grancy is  a  universal  evil  of  cities,  but  the 
California  vagrant  can  easily  pass  the  night 
out-doors  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year. 
A  friend  of  mine  who  was  connected  with 
the  management  of  San  Francisco  public 
schools  for  a  number  of  years,  laid  stress  upon 
this  climatic  factor  and  its  dangers  in  official 
communications  published  at  the  time  of  his 
office.  The  now  too  well-known  name  of 
"hoodlum"  originated  in  San  Francisco,  and 
is  said  to  have  been  the  name  adopted  by  a 

221 


THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

particular  group  of  young  men.  The  social 
complications  of  the  time  of  the  sand-lot, 
when  Dennis  Kearney  led  laborers  into  a 
dangerous  pass,  were  again  favored  by  cli- 
matic conditions.  Public  meetings  out-of- 
doors  and  in  the  sand-lot  could  be  held  with 
a  certain  freedom  and  persistency  in  Cali- 
fornia that  would  be  impossible  without  inter- 
ruption elsewhere.  While  such  factors  have 
nothing  to  do  with  discontent,  they  greatly 
increase  the  opportunities  for  agitation.  The 
new  constitution  of  California,  adopted  in 
1879,  was  carried  at  the  polls  by  a  combina- 
tion of  the  working  men  of  San  Francisco 
with  the  dissatisfied  farmers  of  the  interior. 
This  dissatisfaction  of  the  farmers  was  no 
doubt  due  in  the  main  to  the  inadequacy  of 
their  comprehension  of  the  material  condi- 
tions under  which  they  were  working.  The 
position  of  California  —  its  geographical  iso- 
lation again  —  has  been  one  complicating 
factor  for  the  California  farmer,  since  luxuri- 
ant nature  easily  furnished  him,  in  case  he 
should  use  wise  methods,  with  a  rich  supply, 

222 


THE   PACIFIC   COAST 

while  his  geographical  isolation  made  access 
to  market  somewhat  difficult.  This  diffi- 
culty about  the  markets  long  affected  Cali- 
fornia political  life  in  the  form  of  dissatisfac- 
tion felt  against  the  railway,  which  was  of 
course  held  responsible  and  which  in  fact  for 
years  was  more  or  less  responsible  for  an 
increase  of  these  difficulties  of  reaching  the 
market.  Well,  this  entire  series  of  compli- 
cations, which  in  1879  combined  San  Fran- 
cisco working  men  with  the  farmers  of  the 
interior,  and  changed  the  constitution  of  the 
state,  is  an  example  of  the  complex  way  in 
which  the  geographical  situation  and  the 
factors  of  climate  have  acted  to  affect  social 
movements. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  individuality  afore- 
said, when  brought  into  the  presence  of  such 
social  agitations,  has  frequently  proved  in 
California  life  a  conservative  factor  of  great 
importance.  The  mob  may  be  swept  away 
for  a  time  by  an  agitating  idea.  But  the  indi- 
vidual Californian  himself  is  suspicious  of 
mobs.  The  agitations  in  question  proved 

223 


THE   PACIFIC    COAST 

transient.  Even  the  constitution,  designed 
to  give  the  discontented  whatever  they  most 
supposed  they  wanted,  proved  to  be  sus- 
ceptible of  a  very  conservative  construction 
by  the  courts,  and  public  opinion  in  Cali- 
fornia has  never  been  very  long  under  the 
sway  of  any  one  illusion.  The  individuality 
that  we  have  described  quickly  revolts  against 
its  false  prophets.  In  party  politics,  Cali- 
fornia proves  to  be  an  extremely  doubtful 
state.  Party  ties  are  not  close.  The  vote 
changes  from  election  to  election.  The  inde- 
pendent voter  is  well  in  place.  Finally, 
through  all  these  tendencies,  there  runs  a 
certain  idealism,  often  more  or  less  uncon- 
scious. This  idealism  is  partly  due  to  the 
memory  of  the  romance  due  to  the  unique 
marvels  of  the  early  days.  It  is  also  sus- 
tained by  precisely  that  intimacy  with  nature 
which  renders  the  younger  Californians  so 
sensitive.  I  think  that  perhaps  Edward 
Rowland  Sill,  whose  poems  are  nowadays  so 
widely  appreciated,  has  given  the  most  repre- 
sentative expression  to  the  resulting  spirit 

224 


THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

of  California,  to  that  tension  between  indi- 
vidualism and  loyalty,  between  shrewd  con- 
servatism and  bold  radicalism,  which  marks 
this  community. 


225 


SOME  RELATIONS  OF  PHYSICAL  TRAINING 
TO  THE  PRESENT  PROBLEMS  OF  MORAL 
EDUCATION  IN  AMERICA 


SOME  RELATIONS  OF  PHYSICAL  TRAINING 
TO  THE  PRESENT  PROBLEMS  OF  MORAL 
EDUCATION  IN  AMERICA1 

TN  asking  me  to  address  this  Society,  your 
Secretary  was  well  aware  that  I  have  no  right 
and  no  desire  to  pass  judgment  upon  any  of 
the  more  technical  problems  which  are  peculiar 
to  the  profession  of  physical  education.  But 
there  are  problems  which  are  common  to  your 
profession  and  to  that  region  of  inquiry  to 
which  I  am  most  devoted.  These  common 
problems,  in  fact,  interest  all  who  are  con- 
cerned in  the  welfare  of  humanity,  and  who  in 
particular  aim  to  further  the  welfare  of  our 
country.  I  refer  to  those  problems  of  moral 
education  which,  in  the  present  time,  assume 
new  and  difficult  forms  in  American  life.  I 
am  well  aware  that  those  of  you,  and  of  your 
numerous  colleagues,  who  have  been  most 

1  An  address  before  the  Boston  Physical  Education  Associa- 
tion. 

229 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

earnest  in  furthering  the  cause  of  physical 
education,  not  only  in  our  land,  but  in  Europe, 
have  always  laid  great  stress  upon  the  close 
relation  of  sound  physical  training  to  good 
moral  training.  And  we  all  know  how,  from 
primitive  times,  mankind  have  used  various 
forms  of  physical  exercise  as  a  part  of  the 
discipline  which  tribes  or,  later,  nations  or, 
in  our  modern  days,  civilized  men  generally, 
have  regarded  as  fitted  to  form  whatever 
well-rounded  types  of  individual  character 
the  various  stages  of  human  culture  have 
admired.  Physical  training  has  repeatedly 
had,  in  the  past,  a  place  in  the  religious  life 
of  various  peoples,  and  systems  of  secular 
training  have  often  so  much  the  more  fol- 
lowed analogous  lines.  Chivalry  in  Europe, 
Bushido  in  Japan,  were  systems  of  conduct 
which  were  inseparable  from  various  plans 
for  physical  training.  To-day  most  of  you  lay 
constant  stress  upon  your  function,  not  only 
as  teachers  who  care  for  the  health,  for  the 
physical  growth,  and  for  the  accompanying 
intellectual  development  of  your  pupils,  but 

230 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

as  instructors  who  contribute  what  you  all 
believe  to  be  a  very  significant  part  of  the 
moral  education  of  the  youth  of  the  country. 
The  social  organizations  known  as  Young 
Men's  Christian  Associations  are  the  expres- 
sion of  explicitly  religious  motives,  and  are 
unquestionably  intended  for  an  ethical  pur- 
pose. But  they  regard  their  gymnasiums 
as  an  essential  part  of  their  work.  And  this 
is  but  one  example  of  the  recognition  of  a 
close  linkage  between  physical  and  moral 
training,  —  a  linkage  which  you  all  believe 
to  be  important,  and  which  most  of  you  con- 
sciously emphasize  in  your  own  practice. 

The  problems  of  moral  education  are  com- 
mon, then,  to  you  and  to  your  colleagues  in 
other  branches  of  education,  of  inquiry,  and 
of  social  work.  I  myself,  as  a  teacher  of 
philosophy,  have  lately  been  led  to  consider 
some  of  the  problems  of  ethics  with  especial 
reference  to  the  present  state  of  our  American 
civilization.  I  have  supposed,  therefore,  that 
you  might  be  interested  if  I  now  attempt  to 
state  some  of  these  problems  in  a  way  to 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

suggest  their  possible  connections  with  your 
profession.  I  make  these  suggestions  very  ten- 
tatively. As  a  student  of  philosophy,  I  have, 
indeed,  my  rights  as  an  inquirer  into  ethical 
questions.  But,  when  I  try  to  tell  you  my 
view  about  how  some  of  these  questions  relate 
to  your  calling,  I  at  once  run  the  risks  which 
any  man  runs  who  attempts  to  connect  his 
own  views  with  those  of  others,  by  appealing 
to  his  fellows  regarding  the  matters  in  which 
they  are  expert  while  he  is  not  expert.  But, 
in  any  case,  I  shall  try  to  keep  to  the  ground 
that  is  common  to  your  calling  and  to  mine. 
You  all  of  you  are  interested  in  what  some  of 
you  may  call  the  philosophy  of  physical  train- 
ing. I  am  professionally  concerned  with 
philosophy.  And  so  I  want  to  meet  you 
upon  this  common  basis  of  your  interest  and 
mine  in  the  questions  which  concern  what  I 
may  call  the  moral  philosophy  of  your  calling. 

I 

I  shall  begin  by  asking  what  we  mean  by 
the  moral  training  of  an  individual  man. 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

This  question  we  can  best  attempt  to  an- 
swer by  sketching  a  moral  ideal,  —  an  ideal  of 
what,  as  I  suppose,  we  all,  more  or  less  con- 
sciously, desire  any  moral  agent  to  become. 
If  we  define  this  ideal,  then  the  moral  training 
of  an  individual  will  be  defined  as  the  training 
that  is  best  adapted  to  help  that  individual 
to  approach  this  moral  ideal. 

The  ideal  human  moral  agent,  as  I  assert, 
is  a  man  who  is  whole-heartedly  and  effect- 
ively loyal  to  some  fitting  object  of  loyalty. 
This  first  statement  of  the  moral  ideal  may 
seem  vague  to  you.  I  hasten  to  explain  a 
little  more  precisely  what  I  mean. 

I  have  chosen  the  good  old  word  "  loyal "  as 
the  word  best  adapted  to  arouse,  with  the 
fewest  misleading  associations,  that  idea  of 
the  moral  life  which  I  believe  to  be  rationally 
the  most  defensible.  But,  of  course,  my  own 
usage  of  the  word  "  loyal "  must  attempt  to 
be  more  exact  than  the  traditional  usage  is, 
because  such  popular  words  are  always  ap- 
plied somewhat  recklessly;  and  the  loyalty 
that  I  have  in  mind  when  I  employ  this  term 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN    AMERICA 

is  something  that  I  try  to  conceive  in  as  exact 
a  fashion  as  the  subject  permits.  "  Loyalty," 
as  popularly  understood,  has  always  meant 
a  certain  attitude  of  mind  which  faithful 
friends,  lovers,  soldiers,  or  retainers,  or  which 
martyrs  dying  for  their  faith  have  exemplified. 
Plainly,  a  good  many  different  sorts  of  people 
and  of  deeds  have  been  called  loyal.  And, 
if  you  view  the  matter  merely  upon  the  basis 
of  a  comparison  of  a  few  widely  various 
instances  of  loyalty,  you  may  be  disposed  to 
say  that  the  moral  quality  in  question  is  too 
wavering  and  confused  a  feature  of  character 
to  be  fitly  used  as  a  type  of  all  moral  excellence. 
Cannot  robbers  be  loyal  to  their  band,  slaves 
to  their  master,  mischievous  boys  to  the  com- 
rades whose  pranks  they  incite  and  applaud, 
but  whose  names  they  refuse  to  tell  to  any 
teacher?  Is  loyalty,  then,  always  a  trait  of 
the  morally  wise  or  of  the  good?  Is  it  a 
typical  virtue?  Is  it  not  rather  an  accidental 
accompaniment  of  goodness  or,  at  best,  a 
special  form  which  goodness  may  sometimes 
take? 

234 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

I  answer  that  all  these  just-mentioned 
instances  of  loyalty  —  even  the  loyalty  of 
the  robber  to  his  band  —  involve  some  morally 
good  features.  My  own  definition  of  loyalty 
as  a  fundamental  virtue  is  intended,  first  to 
emphasize  these  good  features,  which  even  the 
blindest  forms  of  loyalty  exemplify,  then  to 
separate  these  good  features  from  their  acci- 
dental setting,  and  then  to  define  the  ideal 
toward  which  all  the  forms  of  loyalty  seem 
to  me  to  tend.  I  will  therefore  proceed  at 
once  to  characterize  loyalty  as  it  appears  in 
its  most  typical  instances  and  on  higher 
levels. 

Loyalty,  as  I  view  the  essence  of  this  trait, 
means,  in  the  first  place,  a  certain  attitude 
of  mind  which  we  can  best  understand  by 
considering  cases  of  strong  and  hearty  loyalty 
as  they  occur  in  the  life  of  a  mature  and  highly 
trained  man.  This  loyal  attitude  makes  a 
man  give  himself  to  the  active  service  of  a 
cause.  This  cause  is  one  which  the  loyal 
man  regards,  at  the  moment  of  action,  as 
something  beyond  his  own  private  self,  and 

235 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

as  larger  than  this  private  self,  as  vaster 
and  worthier  than  any  of  his  private  interests. 
And  yet,  for  the  loyal  man,  his  whole  private 
self  meanwhile  seems  inspired  by  the  cause, 
so  that,  while  he  is  engaged  in  his  loyal  activity, 
his  eyes,  his  ears,  his  tongue,  his  hand,  his 
whole  strength,  exist,  for  the  time,  simply  as 
the  organs  of  his  loyalty.  When  a  man  is 
loyal  and  is  actively  engaged  in  his  loyal  un- 
dertakings, he  is  keenly  and  clearly  conscious, 
therefore,  of  a  strong  contrast,  and  yet  of  an 
equally  strong  unity,  present  in  his  life  and 
in  his  deeds.  He  himself,  the  natural  man, 
with  his  desires  and  his  private  interests, 
with  his  muscles  and  his  sense  organs,  with  his 
property  and  his  powers,  —  he  is  there  in 
the  world,  and  he  knows  this  natural  self 
of  his,  he  is  definitely  aware  of  it.  For  loyalty 
is  never  mere  self-forgetfulness ;  it  is  self- 
devotion.  And  you  cannot  devote  yourself 
unless  you  are  aware  of  yourself.  The  loyal 
man  lives  intensely,  vigorously,  personally; 
and  over  against  this  natural  self  of  his  is  his 
cause,  —  his  side  in  a  game,  his  army  in  com- 

236 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

bat,  his  country  in  danger,  or  perhaps  his 
friend,  his  beloved,  his  family,  humanity, 
God.  He  is  conscious  of  this  cause;  and  so 
the  cause  is,  in  great  part,  sharply  contrasted 
with  this  private  self  of  his.  It  is  outside  of 
him,  —  something  vast,  dignified,  imposing, 
compelling,  objective.  Were  he  not  aware 
of  this  sharp  contrast  between  himself  and  his 
cause,  he  could  not  be  loyal;  for  without  the 
contrast  the  whole  affair  would  be  merely  one 
of  his  private  interests  and  passions.  The 
cause  meanwhile  is  itself  no  mere  thing  amongst 
things.  It  has  at  least  the  value  of  a  person 
or  of  a  system  of  persons.  It  is  always,  in 
fact,  for  any  deeply  loyal  man,  something 
which  is  at  once  personal  and  superpersonal, 
as  your  family  and  your  country  are  for  you. 
One  cannot  be  loyal  to  merely  inanimate 
things  as  such.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
loyalty  always  views  persons  in  their  deeper 
relations  to  something  that  seems  larger  than 
any  one  human  personality  or  than  any  mere 
collection  of  persons  can  be.  Thus  your  family 
is,  for  your  family  loyalty,  more  than  the  mere 

237 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

collection  of  its  members;  and  the  Joseph 
of  the  story  was  loyal  to  his  brotherly  and  to 
his  filial  ties,  and  not  merely  to  the  various 
individual  brethren. 

Well,  this  contrast  of  the  natural  man  and 
of  his  imposing  and  objective  cause  is  a  fact 
of  which  the  loyal  man  is  keenly  conscious. 
Yet,  despite  this  fact,  he  is  just  as  conscious 
that  by  his  deeds  he  is  always  reducing  his 
contrast  ever  afresh  to  unity.  So  long  as  he 
is  indeed  active,  wide-awake,  effectively  loyal, 
he  exists  only  as  servant  of  this  cause.  The 
cause,  then,  is  not  only  another  than  his 
private  self;  it  is  in  a  sense  his  larger  self. 
Despite  the  contrast  he  becomes  one  with  it 
through  his  every  loyal  deed.  His  private 
self  is  its  willing  instrument.  The  cause 
inspires  him,  acts  through  him.  Loyalty 
is  a  sort  of  possession.  It  has  a  demonic 
force  which  controls  the  wayward  private 
self.  The  cause  takes  hold  of  the  man,  and 
his  organism  is  no  longer  his  own,  so  long  as 
the  loyal  inspiration  is  upon  him. 

Such,  I  say,  is,  in  the  briefest  language, 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

a  general  characterization  of  the  character- 
istic loyal  attitude  as  it  exists  in  its  strong 
and  maturely  developed  forms,  and  especially 
in  the  moments  of  our  effectively  loyal  conduct. 
The  boys,  loyal  to  their  mates,  have  the  be- 
ginnings of  loyalty,  often  in  evanescent  forms. 
The  simple-minded  folk  who  do  not  reflect 
are  not  always  so  keenly  conscious  of  their 
loyalty  as  more  thoughtful  folk  may  be;  but 
all  the  more  are  they  able  to  prove  their 
loyalty  by  their  deeds.  The  fully  mature  and 
reflectively  devoted  man  knows  his  loyalty, 
and  is  possessed  by  it. 

For  loyalty,  as  you  see,  is  essentially  an 
active  virtue.  It  involves  manifold  senti- 
ments, —  love,  good-will,  earnestness,  de- 
light in  the  cause;  but  it  is  complete  only  in 
motor  terms,  never  in  merely  sentimental 
terms.  It  is  useless  to  call  my  feelings  loyal  un- 
less my  muscles  somehow  express  this  loyalty. 
For  my  objective  cause  and  my  inner  private 
self,  in  case  I  am  loyal,  are  sharply  contrasted. 
I  have  to  think  of  both  of  them,  if  I  am  to  be 
loyal;  but  they  must  be  brought  into  unity. 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

Only  my  deeds  can  accomplish  this  result. 
My  loyal  sentiments,  if  left  to  themselves, 
would  merely  emphasize  the  contrast  without 
giving  life  any  acceptable  unity.  Loyal  is 
that  loyally  does.  Hence  the  loyal  attitude 
is  one  which  especially  interests  any  teacher 
who  is  concerned  with  what  his  pupil  does. 
The  nature  of  loyalty,  then,  in  the  pupil  should 
interest  any  teacher  of  physical  training  who  is 
considerate  of  the  moral  aspects  of  his  calling. 
To  be  sure,  on  its  higher  levels,  —  in  its  ideal 
expressions,  —  loyalty  goes  over  into  regions 
where  mere  physical  training  seems  to  be  very 
remote  from  the  forms  of  loyalty  that  are  in 
question.  For  loyalty,  as  I  hold,  includes  in 
its  spirit  whatever  has  been  meant  in  the  past 
by  the  various  inner  virtues  of  sentiment,  by 
charity,  by  high-mindedness,  by  spiritual 
training.  It  includes  these  virtues  because 
the  loyal  act  needs  and  expresses  the  loyal 
sentiment.  But  loyalty  combines  the  senti- 
ments with  all  the  active  virtues,  —  with 
courage,  with  patience,  with  moral  initiative, 
—  according  as  these  are  needed  in  one  situa- 

240 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

tion  or  in  another.  Yet  on  even  its  highest 
levels  loyalty  has  its  physical  expression. 
For  one  is  loyal  through  his  deed.  If  I  were 
here  to  define  the  moral  ideal  in  terms  of 
the  Pauline  virtue  of  charity,  as  described  in 
the  thirteenth  chapter  of  First  Corinthians,  we 
should  have  indeed  some  difficulty  in  pointing 
out  within  the  limits  of  this  paper  the  various 
intermediate  steps  by  which  this  lofty  spiritual 
virtue  of  the  apostle  is  linked,  as  of  course  it  is 
indeed  linked,  with  the  motor  activities  whereby 
our  organism  expresses  our  will.  But,  when 
I  now  define  the  moral  ideal  directly  in  terms 
of  the  loyal  attitude,  you  all  see  at  once  how 
nobody  can  be  effectively  loyal  unless  he  is 
highly  trained  on  the  motor  side,  and  unless 
his  ideas  and  his  moral  sentiments  have  long 
since  won  their  way  to  an  elaborate  expression 
in  the  deeds  of  his  organism.  And  so  it  is 
indeed  plain  that  surely  one  way,  at  least,  to 
prepare  a  man  for  a  loyal  life,  is  to  give  him 
a  careful  and  extended  motor  training,  such 
as  organizes  his  conduct  in  harmony  with  his 
nobler  sentiments.  This  you  all  see ;  and  you 
»  241 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

know  that  the  Japanese  long  ago  saw  it  also, 
so  that  an  essential  part  of  their  training  in 
Bushido  —  that  is,  in  their  ancient  code  of 
chivalrous  loyalty  —  was  a  training  in  the 
physical  arts  of  a  Samurai.  Our  very  first 
view  of  loyalty  suggests  then  a  sense  in  which 
physical  and  moral  training  may  be  closely 
related.  But  before  we  estimate  what  this 
relation  means  we  must  get  a  fuller  notion  of 
what  loyalty  itself  means. 

II 

I  have  so  far  only  characterized  the  general 
attitude  of  the  higher  types  of  loyalty.  Loyalty 
such  as  has  now  been  defined  may  of  course 
take  countless  special  forms.  And  these  forms 
may  appear  to  be  in  conflict  with  one  another. 
In  practice  the  expressions  of  loyalty  do  in 
fact  often  conflict  with  one  another.  The 
loyal  are  often  quarrelsome.  Men  can  be 
equally  devoted  servants  of  their  various 
causes  and  yet  pass  their  lives  in  trying  to  kill 
one  another.  But,  since  I  have  so  far  em- 
phasized the  central  significance  of  loyalty 

242 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

as  a  moral  ideal,  you  may  well  wonder  whether 
I  am  indeed  right  to  make  loyalty  thus  central. 
And  so  you  may  well  ask  me  what  I  have  to 
say,  as  a  moralist,  regarding  those  conflicts 
of  loyalty  of  which  so  large  a  part  of  the 
history  of  mankind  has  consisted.  When 
equally  loyal  people  are  found  fighting  to- 
gether, when  the  heroic  devotion  of  all  that  a 
man  has  and  is  to  the  cause  which  he  has 
chosen  as  his  own  appears  to  demand  of  him 
that  he  should  fight  and  perhaps  slay  his 
fellow-man,  —  well,  as  you  may  next  ask,  in 
such  cases,  Who  is  right?  And,  if  loyalty 
is  indeed  any  guide  to  right  conduct,  why 
should  loyalty  counsel  me,  as  it  so  often  seems 
to  do,  to  oppose  and  to  condemn  the  loyalty 
of  my  fellow?  Must  there  not  then  be  some 
higher  moral  principle  than  that  of  loyalty,  — 
some  principle  in  terms  of  which  we  can 
find  out  who  is  right  when  two  forms  of  loyalty 
contradict  each  other's  claims,  while  each 
pretends  to  be  the  only  true  loyalty?  After 
all,  —  as  you  may  insist,  —  have  I  shown  in 
the  foregoing  why  the  robber  ought  not  to  be 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

loyal  to  his  band  ?  Have  I  shown  what  wise 
loyalty  is  as  distinguished  from  slavish  or 
base  loyalty?  Have  not  countless  crimes 
been  committed  in  the  name  of  loyalty  ? 

To  such  questions  I  at  once  answer  that,  in 
making  loyalty  central  as  a  moral  principle, 
I  mean  to  define  loyalty  in  a  sense  which  in 
the  end  will  make  explicit  what  the  true 
and  implied  meaning  of  all  loyalty  is,  even  in 
the  cases  where  loyalty,  like  love  in  the  prov- 
erb, is  blind.  I  defined  the  loyal  attitude 
as  something  characteristic  of  a  certain  type 
of  personal  life.  I  have  said  that  the  genuinely 
moral  attitude  is  always  one  of  loyalty.  I 
have  meant,  and  I  shall  indeed  stoutly  insist, 
that  nobody  has  reached  any  morally  ideal 
position  who  is  not,  in  his  more  active  life, 
loyal  to  some  cause  or  to  some  system  of  causes. 
I  maintain  that  without  loyalty  there  is  no 
thoroughgoing  morality;  and  I  also  insist 
that  all  special  virtues  and  duties,  such  as 
those  which  the  names  benevolence,  truth- 
fulness, justice,  spirituality,  charity,  recall  to 
our  minds,  are  parts  or  are  special  forms  of 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN  AMERICA 

loyalty.  My  theory  is  that  the  whole  moral 
law  is  implicitly  bound  up  in  the  one  precept : 
Be  loyal.  But  I  freely  admit  that  many  men 
who  have  been  enthusiastically  and  effectively 
loyal  to  various  causes,  and  who  in  their  per- 
sonal lives  have  won  as  mature  a  notion  of 
loyalty  as  they  were  capable  of  getting,  have 
nevertheless  often  committed,  in  the  name  of 
loyalty,  great  crimes.  And  you  may  well 
ask  how  I  explain  this  fact.  You  may  well 
wonder  how  loyalty  can  be  a  central  moral 
principle,  when  lives  that  were  as  loyal  as  the 
men  in  question  knew  how  to  make  them  have 
often  been  morally  mischievous  lives. 

My  answer  is  that  our  loyalty  leads  us  into 
moral  error  only  in  so  far  as  we  are  indeed 
often  blind  to  what  the  principle  of  loyalty 
actually  means  and  requires.  And  such  blind- 
ness is,  as  men  go,  human  enough  and  com- 
mon enough.  The  corrective  to  such  errors, 
however,  is  not  the  introduction  of  some 
other  moral  principle  than  that  of  loyalty 
but  is  just  the  discovery  of  the  internal  mean- 
ing, the  true  sense  of  the  loyal  principle  itself. 

245 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

Whoever  is  loyal  loves  loyalty  for  its  own 
sake.  Let  him  merely  bethink  him  of  what 
this  love  for  loyalty  means,  and  he  will  be  led 
to  that  definition  of  the  precept :  Be  loyal,  — 
to  that  definition,  I  say,  which  gives  to  this 
principle  its  true  scope. 

Loyalty,  namely,  is  a  common  good,  — 
I  might  say  that  it  is  the  common  good  of 
morally  trained  mankind.  This,  however, 
does  not  mean  that  all  men  ought  to  define 
in  the  same  monotonous  terms  the  causes  to 
which  they  are  to  be  loyal.  There  is  a  diver- 
sity of  causes.  There  is  one  spirit  of  loyalty. 
In  the  spirit  of  loyalty,  viewed  just  as  a  per- 
sonal attitude,  lies  the  only  universal  solution 
of  the  problem  of  every  private  personality. 
What  am  I  here  for?  So  a  man  may  ask 
himself.  And  the  rational  answer  is:  You 
are  here  to  become  absorbed  in  a  devotion 
to  some  cause  or  system  of  causes.  Your 
devotion  must  be  as  thorough  as  your  effective 
power  to  do  work  is  highly  developed.  Herein 
alone  lies  the  solution  of  your  personal  prob- 
lem. In  case  you  are  loyal  to  nothing,  your 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

existence  as  a  private  individual  will  remain 
to  you  a  mysterious  burden,  which  you  may 
learn  to  tolerate,  or  even,  if  you  are  lucky  and 
thoughtless,  to  enjoy,  but  which  you  can  never 
discover  to  be  anything  of  rational  meaning 
unless  you  take  yourself  to  be  a  centre  of 
activity  of  which  some  spiritual  power  to  which 
you  are  loyally  devoted  makes  use.  And 
this  power  must  be  much  bigger  and  worthier 
than  your  private  fortunes,  taken  by  them- 
selves, can  ever  become.  If  such  a  spiritual 
power,  such  a  cause,  such  a  god  stronger  than 
you  are,  enters  you,  possesses  you,  uses  you, 
and  finds  you  its  willingly  loyal  instrument, 
then  you,  just  as  you,  have  an  office,  a  function, 
a  place,  a  status,  a  right,  in  the  world.  This 
your  right  will  become  manifest  to  you  only 
through  your  loyal  deeds.  You  will  work 
in  the  spirit  of  your  cause.  Your  powers  will 
be  dedicated  to  the  cause,  and  the  otherwise 
miserable  natural  accident  that  there  you  are, 
with  just  your  sensations,  your  ideas,  and 
your  physical  organism,  will  become  trans- 
formed into  a  notable  event  in  the  great  world, 

247 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

—  the  event  that  precisely  your  unique  ser- 
vice of  your  chosen  cause  has  come  to  pass  by 
your  own  will. 

Loyalty,  then,  —  the  general  spirit  of  loyalty, 
I  now  mean,  —  is  a  common  good  of  mankind. 
It  is  the  only  good  the  possession  of  which 
makes  any  man's  being  thoroughly  worth 
while  from  his  own  more  rational  point  of 
view.  Now,  if  this  be  so,  loyalty,  taken  in 
its  universal  meaning,  is  just  as  much  a  true 
good  in  the  world  when  my  neighbor  possesses 
it  as  when  I  possess  it.  If  once  I  am  wide- 
awake enough  to  grasp  this  fact,  I  shall  value 
my  neighbor's  loyalty  just  as  highly  as  I  do 
my  own.  He  indeed  will  be  loyal  to  his  cause, 
I  to  mine.  Our  causes  may  be  very  diverse, 
but  our  spirit  will  be  one.  And  so  the  very 
essence  of  my  spirit  of  loyalty  will  demand 
that  I  state  my  principle  thus:  Be  loyal,  and 
be  in  such  wise  loyal  that,  whatever  your 
own  cause,  you  remain  loyal  to  loyalty.  That 
is,  so  choose  your  cause,  and  so  serve  it,  that, 
as  a  result  of  your  activity,  there  shall  be 
more  of  this  common  good  of  loyalty  in  the 

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PHYSICAL  TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

world  than  there  would  have  been,  had  you 
not  lived  and  acted.  Let  your  loyalty  be  such 
loyalty  as  helps  your  neighbor  to  be  loyal. 
Despite  the  diversity  of  the  individual  causes 
—  the  families,  countries,  professions,  friend- 
ships —  to  which  you  and  your  neighbor  are 
loyal,  so  act  that  the  devotion  of  each  shall 
respect  and  aid  the  other's  loyalty. 

This  simpler  statement  of  the  true  meaning 
of  the  principle  of  loyalty  enables  us  at  once 
to  see  that,  when  in  the  past  loyalty  has  led 
men  into  crimes,  —  that  is,  into  needless 
hostility  to  other  people's  loyalty,  —  it  has 
done  so,  not  because  the  men  were  loyal,  but 
because  they  were  blind  to  what  their  own 
loyalty  signified.  If  they  loved  loyalty  for  its 
own  sake  (and  this  they  did  in  case  they  were 
indeed  loyal),  then  they  valued  loyalty  not 
as  their  private  possession,  but  for  its  own 
dear  sake,  as  a  type  of  spiritual  activity,  as  a 
sort  of  human  interest,  that  makes  human 
life  morally  worth  while  for  any  man  who 
shares  this  spirit.  If  they  had  remembered 
this  fact,  and  if  they  had  seen  what  the  fact 

249 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING    IN   AMERICA 

meant,  they  would  have  respected  in  their 
neighbors'  lives  every  form  of  genuine  loyalty, 
wherever  they  met  with  it.  And  then  they 
would  have  seen  that  the  spirit  of  our  true 
loyalty  is  never  opposed  to  the  existence  of 
our  neighbor's  loyalty.  Charity,  benevolence, 
and  —  simplest  of  all  —  plain  fair  play  are 
tendencies  that  are  thus  to  be  ethically  defined 
and  deduced  from  our  central  principle.  All 
such  virtues  are  expressions  of  that  loyalty 
to  loyalty  which  I  have  now  defined  as  the 
genuine  and  enlightened  incorporation  of  the 
loyal  spirit.  Wherever  a  soldier  has  honored 
the  heroism  and  devotion  of  his  enemy,  this 
honor,  if  it  has  taken  practical  form,  has  been 
an  instance  of  loyalty  to  loyalty.  One  soldier 
fights  for  one  cause,  the  other  for  the  other. 
But  each  may,  even  as  warrior,  respect  his 
opponent's  loyalty.  Let  the  spirit  of  this 
loyalty  to  loyalty  spread  amongst  us,  and  it 
will,  indeed,  in  no  wise  mean  that  we  shall 
all  individually  serve  the  same  causes.  We 
must  have  our  various  causes,  just  as  we  have 
our  various  families.  And  no  man's  loyalty 

250 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

ought  to  consist  wholly  in  a  devotion  to  the 
same  causes  that  other  men  serve.  Loyalty 
is,  for  each  man,  something  personal,  individ- 
ual. And  yet,  as  I  insist,  the  spirit  of  loyalty 
is  a  common  good  for  all  men.  Each  man 
must  solve  his  own  problem  of  life  by  means 
of  his  own  form  of  loyalty.  But  the  one  cause 
that  we  shall  all  have  in  common  will  be  the 
cause  of  loyalty  to  loyalty;  that  is,  we  shall 
all  be  disposed  to  make  all  men  more  loyal. 
Every  man's  individual  devotion  to  his  own 
cause  will  be  just  his  own,  but  his  example 
of  loyalty,  his  eagerness  to  be  the  instrument 
of  his  own  cause,  will  be  a  help  and  not  a  hin- 
drance to  his  neighbors  in  the  fostering  of  their 
individual  form  of  the  loyal  spirit.  Let  this 
spirit  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  grow  amongst  us, 
I  say,  and  then  we  shall,  indeed,  rejoice  in  the 
loyalty  of  foreigners  to  their  own  nations  in- 
stead of  despising  them  for  having  the  wrong 
country  to  dwell  in.  Let  this  spirit  of  loyalty 
to  loyalty  become  universal,  and  then  wars  will 
cease;  for  then  the  nations,  without  indeed 
lapsing  into  any  merely  international  mass, 

251 


PHYSICAL    TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

will  so  respect  each  the  loyalty  of  the  others 
that  aggression  will  come  to  seem  inhuman. 
And  instead  of  war  there  will  then  remain 
only  the  sort  of  cheerful  rivalry  amongst  our 
various  forms  of  loyalty  which  at  present 
is  finely  represented  by  good  sport  when  fair 
play  prevails.  For  in  true  sport  one's  loyalty 
to  one's  own  side  exists  as  immediately  ex- 
pressed in  deeds  which  fully  respect  the  op- 
ponent's loyalty  to  his  own  side,  and  which 
involve  that  loyalty  to  the  rules  of  the  game, 
and  so  to  the  common  loyalty  of  both  the  op- 
posing sides,  which  constitutes  fair  play. 

Ill 

Thus,  if  you  please,  I  have  sketched  for  you 
the  basis  of  a  moral  philosophy.  The  rational 
solution  of  moral  problems  rests  on  the  prin- 
ciple: Be  loyal.  This  principle,  properly 
understood,  involves  two  consequences.  The 
first  is  this:  Have  a  cause,  choose  a  cause, 
give  yourself  over  to  that  cause  actively, 
devotedly,  whole-heartedly,  practically.  Let 
this  cause  be  something  social,  serviceable, 

252 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

requiring  loyal  devotion.  Let  this  cause,  or 
system  of  causes,  constitute  a  life  work.  Let 
the  cause  possess  your  senses,  your  attention, 
your  muscles,  —  all  your  powers,  so  long  as 
you  are  indeed  active  and  awake  at  all.  See 
that  you  do  not  rest  in  any  mere  sentiment  of 
devotion  to  the  cause.  Act  out  your  loyalty. 
Loyalty  exists  in  the  form  of  deeds  done  by 
the  willing  and  devoted  instrument  of  his 
chosen  cause.  This  is  the  first  consequence  of 
the  commandment:  Be  loyal.  The  second 
consequence  is  like  unto  the  first.  It  is  this : 
Be  loyal  to  loyalty.  That  is,  regard  your 
neighbor's  loyalty  as  something  sacred.  Do 
nothing  to  make  him  less  loyal.  Never  de- 
spise him  for  his  loyalty,  however  little  you 
care  for  the  cause  that  he  chooses.  If  your 
cause  and  his  cause  come  into  some  inevitable 
conflict,  so  that  you  indeed  have  to  contend 
with  him,  fight,  if  your  loyalty  requires  you  to 
do  so ;  but  in  your  bitterest  warfare  fight  only 
against  what  the  opponent  does.  Thwart  his 
acts  where  he  justly  should  be  thwarted;  but 
do  all  this  in  the  very  cause  of  loyalty  itself, 

253 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

and  never  do  anything  to  make  your  neighbor 
disloyal.  Never  do  anything  to  encourage 
him  in  any  form  of  disloyalty;  in  other  words, 
never  war  against  his  loyalty.  From  these 
consequences  of  my  central  principle  follow, 
as  I  maintain,  all  those  propositions  about 
the  special  duties  of  life  which  can  be  reason- 
ably defined  and  defended.  Justice,  kind- 
liness, chivalry,  charity,  —  these  are  all  of 
them  forms  of  loyalty  to  loyalty. 

Even  while  I  have  set  forth  this  sketch  of  a 
general  ethical  doctrine,  I  have  intentionally 
illustrated  my  views  by  some  references  to 
your  professional  work.  But  at  this  point  I 
next  have  briefly  to  emphasize  the  positive 
relations  which  physical  education  may  have 
and  should  have  to  the  training  of  the  loyal 
spirit.  Here  I  shall  simply  repeat  what  others, 
more  expert  than  I  am,  have  long  since,  in 
various  speech,  set  forth. 

The  first  way  in  which  systematic  physical 
training  of  all  grades  and  at  all  ages  may  be  of 
positive  service  in  a  moral  education  is  this: 
Loyalty,  as  we  have  seen,  means  a  willing 

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PHYSICAL  TRAINING   IN  AMERICA 

and  thoroughgoing  devotion  of  the  whole 
active  self  to  a  chosen  cause  or  to  a  chosen 
system  of  causes.  But  such  devotion,  as  we 
have  also  seen,  is  a  motor  process.  One  must 
be  in  control  of  one's  powers,  or  one  has  no 
self  to  give  to  one's  cause.  One  must  get  a 
personality  in  order  to  be  able  to  surrender 
this  personality  to  anything.  And  since 
physical  training  actually  has  that  relation 
to  the  culture  of  the  will  which  your  leaders 
so  generally  emphasize,  while  some  physical 
expression  of  one's  personality  is  an  essential 
accompaniment  of  the  existence  of  every 
human  personality,  —  for  both  of  these  rea- 
sons, I  say,  the  training  of  physical  strength 
and  skill  is  one  important  preparation  for  a 
moral  life.  There  is  indeed  a  great  deal  else 
in  moral  training  besides  what  physical  train- 
ing supplies ;  but  the  physical  training  can  be 
a  powerful  auxiliary.  Here  I  come  upon 
ground  that  is  familiar  to  all  of  you,  and  that 
I  need  not  attempt  to  cover  anew  with  sug- 
gestions of  my  own.  The  positive  relation 
of  good  physical  training  to  the  formation  of 

255 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

a  sound  will  is  known  to  all  of  you.  The  only 
relatively  new  aspect  of  this  familiar  region 
that  may  have  been  brought  to  light  by  the 
foregoing  considerations  is  this:  Loyalty, 
as  you  see,  on  its  highest  levels  involves  the 
same  general  mental  features  which  are  pres- 
ent whenever  a  physical  activity,  at  once  stren- 
uous and  skilful,  is  going  on.  As  a  skilful 
and  difficult  physical  exercise  demands  that 
one  should  keep  his  head  in  the  midst  of 
efforts  that,  by  reason  of  the  strain,  or  of  the 
excitement,  —  by  reason  of  the  very  magni- 
tude and  fascination  of  the  task,  would  con- 
fuse the  untrained  man,  and  make  him  lose 
a  sense  of  what  he  was  trying  to  do,  even  so 
the  work  of  the  effectively  loyal  person  is 
always  one  which  requires  that  he  should 
stand  in  presence  of  undertakings  large  enough 
to  threaten  to  cloud  his  judgment  and  to  crush 
his  self-control,  while  his  loyalty  still  de- 
mands that  he  also  should  keep  his  head  despite 
the  strain,  and  should  retain  steady  control 
of  his  personality,  even  in  order  to  devote  it 
to  the  cause.  Loyalty  means  hard  work 

256 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN    AMERICA 

in  the  presence  of  serious  responsibilities. 
The  danger  of  such  work  is  closely  similar 
to  the  danger  of  losing  one's  head  in  a  difficult 
physical  activity.  One  is  devoting  the  self 
to  the  cause.  The  cause  must  be  vast.  For 
its  very  vastness  is  part  of  what  gives  it  worth. 
I  cannot  be  loyal  to  what  requires  of  me  no 
effort.  But  the  consciousness  of  the  vastness 
and  difficulty  of  one's  cause  tends  to  crush  the 
self  of  the  person  who  is  trying  to  be  loyal. 
And  a  self  crushed  into  a  loss  of  self-possession, 
a  self  no  longer  aware  of  its  powers,  a  self 
that  has  lost  sight  of  its  true  contrast  with 
the  objects  about  it,  has  no  longer  left  the 
powers  which  it  can  devote  to  any  cause. 
Mere  good- will  is  no  substitute  for  trained  self- 
possession  either  in  physical  or  in  moral 
activities.  And  self-possession  is  a  necessary 
condition  for  self-devotion.  When  the  apostle 
compared  the  moral  work  of  the  saints  to  the 
running  of  a  race,  his  metaphors  were  there- 
fore chosen  because  of  this  perfectly  definite 
analogy  between  the  devotion  of  the  trained 
organism  to  its  physical  task  and  the  devotion 
s  257 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

of  the  moral  self  to  its  cause.  In  both  classes 
of  cases,  in  loyal  devotion  and  in  skilful 
and  strenuous  physical  exercise,  similar  men- 
tal problems  have  to  be  solved.  One  has  to 
keep  the  self  in  sight  in  order  to  surrender 
it  anew,  through  each  deed,  to  the  task  in 
hand.  Meanwhile,  since  the  task  is  centred 
upon  something  outside  of  the  self,  and  is  a 
serious  and  an  imposing  task,  it  involves  a 
tendency  to  strain,  to  excitement,  to  a  loss  of 
a  due  self-possession,  to  disturbance  of  the 
equilibrium  of  consciousness.  The  result  is 
likely  to  be,  unless  one  is  in  a  state  of  physical 
or  of  moral  training,  just  a  primary  confusion 
of  self-consciousness  accompanied  by  fear 
or  by  a  sense  of  helplessness.  Against  such 
a  mood  the  mere  sentiment  of  devotion  is  no 
safeguard.  To  hold  on  to  one's  self  at  the 
moment  of  the  greatest  strain,  to  retain  clear- 
ness, even  when  confronted  by  tasks  too  large 
to  be  carried  out  as  one  wishes,  to  persist 
doggedly  despite  defeats,  to  give  up  all  mere 
self-will  and  yet  to  retain  full  self-control, — 
these  are  requirements  which,  as  I  suppose, 

258 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

appear  to  the  consciousness  of  the  athlete  and 
to  the  consciousness  of  the  moral  hero  in 
decidedly  analogous  ways.  And  in  both  cases 
the  processes  involved  are  psycho-physical 
as  well  as  psychical,  and  are  subject  to  the 
general  laws  of  physiology  and  of  psychology. 
Hence,  when  the  teacher  of  physical  training 
regards  his  work  as  a  preparation  of  his 
pupils  for  the  moral  life,  he  can  and  should 
take  account  and  take  advantage  of  these 
analogies.  His  art  is  indeed  one  only  amongst 
the  many  arts  that  contribute  to  moral  train- 
ing. But  he  may  well  insist  that  the  organic 
virtues  that  he  aims  to  establish  in  the  bodily 
activities  of  his  pupils  are  not  only  analogous 
to  the  moral  virtues,  but,  in  the  loyal,  may 
form  a  literal  part  of  those  virtues,  since  vir- 
tue exists  either  in  action  or  in  those  results 
of  training  which  prepare  us  for  right  action. 
To  say  all  this  implies  no  exaggeration  of  the 
importance  of  such  physical  education  as  is 
actually  given  at  the  present  time.  The  whole 
question  is  one,  not  of  inevitable  or  of  fatal 
results,  but  of  the  good  work  that  may  be  done, 

259 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

and  of  an  alliance  of  the  motives  of  physical 
and  of  moral  training  such  as  may  take  place 
if  the  teacher  of  physical  training  is  alive  to 
the  higher  possibilities  of  his  calling. 

IV 

The  second  way  in  which  physical  training 
may  serve  the  purposes  of  moral  training  is  a 
more  direct  way.  It  is  the  one  which  Dr. 
Luther  Gulick  had  in  mind  when  he  lately 
asserted  in  a  paper  in  the  School  Review  that 
"athletics  are  primarily  social  and  moral  in 
their  nature."  Dr.  Gulick  is  well  known  to 
you  as  one  of  the  protagonists  in  the  cause  of 
the  moral  importance  of  physical  education; 
and  you  know  his  main  argument.  Social 
training,  in  boys  about  twelve  years  of  age, 
naturally  takes  the  form  of  the  training  which 
gangs  of  boys  give  to  their  members.  A  gang 
of  boys  with  nothing  significant  to  do  may 
become  more  or  less  of  a  menace  to  the  general 
social  order.  A  gang  of  boys  duly  organized 
into  athletic  teams,  in  the  service  of  schools, 
and  of  other  expressions  of  wholesome  com- 

260 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

munity  activity,  will  become  centres  for  train- 
ing in  certain  types  of  loyalty.  And  this 
training  may  extend  its  influence  to  large 
bodies  of  boys  who,  as  spectators  of  games  or 
as  schoolmates,  are  more  or  less  influenced 
by  the  athletic  spirit.  Mutatis  mutandis, 
the  same  considerations  apply  to  the  socially 
organizing  forces  that  belong  to  college  ath- 
letics. The  plans  of  those  who  are  engaged 
in  physical  education  may  therefore  well  be 
guided,  from  the  first,  by  a  disposition  to  pre- 
pare young  people  to  appreciate  and  to  take 
part  in  such  group  activities  as  these.  Thus 
both  the  physiological  and  the  intellectual 
aspects  of  physical  training  would  appear  to 
be  subordinate,  after  all,  to  the  social,  and  in 
this  way  to  the  moral,  aspects  of  the  profession. 
In  speaking  of  these  moral  aspects,  one  would 
not  even  emphasize,  as  much  as  many  do,  the 
central  significance  of  the  self-denial,  of  the 
personal  restraints  and  sacrifices,  of  the  mor- 
ally advantageous  physical  habits,  which  at- 
tend athletic  training.  One  would  rather 
more  centrally  emphasize  the  view  that 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

athletic  work  is  not  merely  a  preparation  for 
loyalty,  but  that  in  case  of  the  life  of  the 
organized  athletic  teams,  and  in  case  of  any 
physical  training  class  of  pupils  who  work 
together,  the  athletic  work  is  loyalty  itself,  — 
loyalty  in  simple  forms,  but  in  forms  which 
appeal  to  the  natural  enthusiasm  of  youth, 
which  are  adapted  to  the  boyish  and  later  to 
the  adolescent  phases  of  evolution,  and  which 
are  a  positive  training  for  the  very  tasks  which 
adult  loyalty  exemplifies;  namely,  the  tasks 
that  imply  the  devotion  of  a  man's  whole 
power  to  an  office  that  takes  him  out  of  his 
private  self  and  into  the  great  world  of  real 
social  life.  The  social  forms  of  physical 
training  in  classes  or  in  teams  require,  and  so 
tend  to  train,  loyalty. 

Physical  training  may  then  be  so  guided  as 
to  be  a  direct  training  in  social  loyalty.  Your 
secretary  has  kindly  put  into  my  hands,  during 
my  preparation  of  this  paper,  two  German 
monographs  1  whose  authors  insist,  in  some- 

1  Lorenz,  Wehrkraft  und  Jugenderziehung,  Voigtlander's 
Verlag  in  Leipzig,  1899;  Koch,  Die  Erziehung  zum  Mute 
durch  Turnen,  Spiel,  und  Sport,  Berlin,  1900. 

262 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

what  contrasting  ways,  upon  this  directly 
important  office  of  the  teacher  of  physical 
training  as  a  teacher  of  loyalty  and  upon  the 
value  of  play,  of  systematic  gymnastics,  and  of 
athletic  sports,  as  a  training  school  for  loyal 
citizenship.  Both  of  these  monographs  are 
written  under  the  influence  of  the  spirit  of 
militarism,  one  of  them  especially  so;  and 
you  know  now  why  I  should  view  militarism 
as  a  decidedly  blind,  although  often  very 
sincere  and  intense,  form  of  loyalty,  —  a  form 
which  will  vanish  from  the  earth  whenever 
men  come  to  an  enlightened  sense  of  what 
loyalty  to  loyalty  implies.  But  one  has  to 
use,  for  the  best,  such  types  of  loyalty  as  now 
prosper  amongst  men;  and  the  good  side  of 
militarism  is  indeed  the  devotion  that  goes  with 
it,  even  as  the  bad  side  of  militarism  is  due  to 
its  implied  suspicion  that  the  loyalty  of  the 
foreigners  to  their  country's  cause  is  somehow 
in  essential  opposition  to  our  own  loyalty. 
This  suspicion  is  false.  It  breeds  wars,  and 
is  essentially  stupid.  But  loyalty  is  loyalty 
still,  even  when  blind;  and  I  prefer  blind 

263 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

loyalty  to  the  sort  of  thoughtless  individualism 
which  is  loyal  to  nothing.  In  any  case  our 
two  authors  are  right  in  insisting  that  loyalty 
and  physical  training  are  closely  linked  by 
ties  which  ought  to  be  recognized  by  those 
who  are  planning  and  conducting  the  general 
system  of  national  education.  So  much,  then, 
for  the  second  positive  relation  of  physical 
education  to  the  cause  of  general  morality. 
Here,  again,  it  is  true  that  physical  education 
can  furnish  only  a  portion,  and  a  decidedly 
limited  portion,  of  the  means  and  motives 
whereby  true  loyalty  is  trained  in  the  young, 
and  whereby  it  may  also  be  supported  in  older 
minds.  But  teachers  who  engage  in  your 
profession  have  a  good  right  to  insist  upon 
this  direct  social  significance  of  their  work. 
They  do  well  to  insist  also  that  they  can  and 
do  train  such  direct  loyalty,  not  only  in  the 
work  of  athletic  teams,  but  in  successful 
class-work  of  all  kinds,  such  as  the  teachers 
of  physical  training  can  direct. 


264 


PHYSICAL  TRAINING  IN  AMERICA 


The  third  positive  relation  of  physical 
training  to  moral  training  is  suggested  by 
what  I  have  said  about  the  need  of  an  enlight- 
ened form  of  loyalty.  Merely  blind  loyalty 
may  do  mischief :  but  it  does  so,  we  have  said, 
not  because  it  is  loyalty,  but  because  it  is 
blind.  It  turns  into  enlightened  loyalty  in 
so  far  as  it  reaches  the  stage  of  loyalty  to 
loyalty,  —  the  stage  where  one  certainly  does 
not  tend  merely  to  take  over  into  one's  own 
life  and  directly  to  adopt  the  special  cause 
that  one's  neighbor  has  happened  to  choose 
as  his  own,  but  where  one  regards  the  spirit 
of  loyalty,  the  willingness  to  devote  the  self 
to  some  cause,  as  a  precious  common  moral 
good  of  mankind,  —  a  good  that  we  can  indeed 
foster  in  our  neighbors  even  when  their  in- 
dividual causes  are  not  our  own,  or  are  even, 
by  accident,  opposed  to  our  own.  I  can  re- 
spect, can  honor,  I  can  help,  my  neighbor's 
family  loyalty  without  in  the  least  wishing  to  be- 
come a  member  of  his  family.  And  just  so  I 

265 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING  IN   AMERICA 

can  be  loyal  to  any  aspect  of  my  neighbor's 
loyalty  without  accepting  his  special  cause 
as  my  own.  He  may  be  devoted  to  what  I 
cannot  and  will  not  view  as  my  individual 
cause;  and  still,  in  dealing  with  him,  I  can 
be  loyal  to  his  loyalty. 

Now  I  have  already  pointed  out  that  the 
spirit  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  is  finely  exemplified 
by  the  spirit  of  fair  play  in  games.  For  true 
fair  play  does  not  merely  mean  conformity 
to  a  set  of  rules  which  chance  this  season  to 
govern  a  certain  game.  Fair  play  depends 
upon  essentially  respecting  one's  opponent 
just  because  of  his  loyalty  to  his  own  side. 
It  means  a  tendency  to  enjoy,  to  admire, 
to  applaud,  to  love,  to  further  that  loyalty 
of  his  at  the  very  moment  when  I  keenly  want 
and  clearly  intend  to  thwart  his  individual 
deeds,  and  to  win  this  game,  if  I  can.  Now 
in  the  complications  of  real  life  it  is  hard  to 
keep  the  spirit  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  always 
alive.  If  my  passions  are  aroused  and  if  I 
hate  a  man,  it  is  far  too  easy  to  think  that  even 
his  faithful  dog  must  be  a  mean  cur,  in  order 

266 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

to  be  able  to  be  so  devoted  to  his  master  as  he 
is.  And  real  life  often  thus  confuses  our 
judgment  through  stirring  our  passions.  But 
it  is  a  very  precious  thing  when  you  can  keep 
your  head  so  clearly  as  to  be  able  to  oppose 
even  to  the  very  death,  if  needs  must  be, 
your  enemy's  cause,  even  while  you  are  able  to 
love  his  loyalty  to  that  cause,  and  to  honor 
his  followers  for  their  devotion  to  their  leader, 
and  his  friends  for  their  fidelity  to  him. 

Now  it  is  just  such  loyalty  to  loyalty  that 
can  be  trained  in  true  sport  very  much  more 
readily  than  in  real  life,  because,  in  sport, 
the  social  situation  is  simple.  And  because 
the  spirit  of  fair  play,  in  an  athletic  sport,  can 
constantly  express  itself  by  definite  physical 
deeds,  and  because  the  passions  aroused  by 
wholesome  athletic  contests  ought  never  to  be 
as  blind,  as  violent,  or  as  enduring  as  those 
which  real  life  unhappily  so  often  fosters,  the 
training  in  fair  play  ought  to  be  much  easier 
in  the  world  of  athletic  sports  than  the  training 
of  loyalty  to  loyalty  is  in  our  daily  life,  — 
much  easier,  much  simpler,  and  much  more 

267 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

definite.  Hence,  if  games  were  in  all  cases 
rightly  conducted,  if  confusing  passions  were 
properly  kept  from  unnecessary  interference 
with  the  joyous  devotion  of  the  players  to  their 
respective  sides,  if  the  general  physical  training 
of  all  those  who  are  to  engage  in  school  and  in 
college  sports  were  conducted  from  the  first 
by  teachers  who  had  a  serious  interest  in  the 
moral  welfare  of  their  classes,  —  well,  if  these 
conditions  were  realized,  physical  education 
ought  to  contribute  its  important  share  to 
what  we  have  now  seen  to  be  the  very  crown 
of  human  virtue;  namely,  to  the  spirit  of 
loyalty  to  loyalty,  —  to  the  spirit  that  honors 
and  respects  one's  very  enemies  for  their 
devotion  to  the  very  causes  that  one  assails. 
The  result  should  be  the  spiritual  power  to 
appreciate  that  common  good  for  which  even 
those  who  are  mutually  most  hostile  are  con- 
tending. We  human  beings  cannot  agree  as 
to  the  choice  of  our  individual  causes.  We 
can  learn  to  honor  one  another's  loyalty. 

The  spirit  of  fair  play,  as  trained  in  such 
sports  as  are  founded  upon  a  systematic  physi- 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

cal  and  moral  preparation  for  the  strains  of 
contest,  ought  then  to  be  made  a  fine  prep- 
aration for  the  very  highest  and  hardest 
forms  of  loyalty,  as  such  loyalty  is  needed  for 
the  great  world's  social  work.  The  spirit  of 
fair  play,  as  applied  in  the  larger  social  life, 
has  been  called  of  late  by  a  rather  poor,  if 
popularly  effective  name,  —  the  now  familiar 
name  "the  square  deal."  The  name  is  poor, 
despite  the  intent  of  the  distinguished  moralist 
who  is  responsible  for  its  recent  popular  usage, 
because  it  is  a  name  derived  from  games  of 
chance,  and  because  it  suggests  that  the 
true  spirit  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  is  sufficiently 
shown  when  you  merely  avoid  any  interfer- 
ence with  your  opponent's  agreed  right  to  his 
share  of  the  chances  of  the  game.  But  true 
loyalty  to  loyalty  involves  a  spirit  that  goes 
much  further  than  this.  It  involves  an  active 
and  effective  positive  respect,  —  yes,  love, 
for  loyalty,  wherever  you  meet  with  it,  even  if 
the  loyalty  that  you  honor  inspires  those  very 
deeds  of  the  opponent  which  you  most  are 
required  by  your  own  cause  to  thwart.  Now 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN    AMERICA 

this  active  and  practical  honor  for  the  loyalty 
of  your  opponents  is  no  mere  external  orna- 
ment of  the  chivalrous  virtues.  It  is  simply 
the  very  essence  of  all  the  highest  virtues. 
Higher  civilization  depends  upon  it.  True 
justice,  which  certainly  involves  very  much 
more  than  "the  square  deal,"  true  charity, 
truthfulness,  humanity,  —  these  are  all  the 
embodiments  of  loyalty  to  loyalty.  And  in 
real  life  this  form  of  virtue  is  at  once  the  most 
valuable  and  the  hardest. 

Here,  then,  is  an  opportunity  for  the  teacher 
engaged  in  physical  training  to  set  before  his 
pupils  the  highest  of  human  ideals  in  an  ex- 
tremely practical  way,  and  in  close  connection 
with  definite  physical  activities.  If  a  man  is 
loyal  to  the  loyalty  that  he  has  seen,  —  has 
seen  expressed  in  the  activities  of  the  play- 
ground, the  gymnasium,  and  the  athletic  field, 
—  he  ought  to  be  helped  toward  that  loyalty 
to  unseen  loyalty  which  constitutes  the  soul 
of  rectitude  in  great  business  enterprises,  the 
heart  of  honor  in  our  national  and  interna- 
tional enterprises. 

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PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

And  yet  this  great  opportunity,  which  the 
teacher  of  physical  training  possesses,  is,  as 
I  need  not  say,  attended  by  great  and  insidious 
dangers.  Do  the  modern  sports  of  our  inter- 
collegiate and  interscholastic  teams  uniformly 
tend  toward  the  encouragement  of  loyalty 
to  loyalty?  Is  not  this  great  moral  oppor- 
tunity of  physical  education  far  too  much 
wasted,  through  the  accidents  and  the  excesses 
of  our  present  educational  system  ?  To  ask 
this  question  is  to  remind  you  of  numerous 
recent  controversies  whose  grave  significance 
you  all  know.  Great  opportunities  do  not 
necessarily  mean  great  successes.  The  cor- 
ruption of  the  best  may  prove  to  be  the  worst. 

VI 

And  with  these  words  I  am  indeed  brought 
to  the  central  problem  amongst  all  those  with 
which  this  discussion  is  concerned.  I  have 
set  forth  the  three  sorts  of  positively  helpful 
relations  that  a  sound  physical  training  can 
develop  in  its  bearing  upon  the  work  of 
moral  training.  First,  because  skilful  and 

271 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

serious  physical  exercise  involves  true  de- 
votion, a  sound  physical  training  can  help  to 
prepare  the  organism  and  the  personality 
for  loyal  types  of  activity.  Secondly,  physical 
training,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  part  of  the  life  of  a 
social  group,  can  more  directly  aid  the  individ- 
ual to  learn  to  be  loyal  to  his  group.  Thirdly, 
physical  training,  in  so  far  as  it  can  be  used 
to  give  expression  to  the  spirit  of  fair  play, 
may  be  an  aid  toward  the  highest  types  of 
morality;  namely,  to  those  which  embody 
that  spirit  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  which  is  des- 
tined, we  hope,  some  day  to  bring  to  pass  the 
spiritual  union  of  all  mankind.  I  have  pointed 
out  that  all  these  three  forms  are  simply 
possible  forms  in  which  the  moral  usefulness 
of  physical  training  may  appear.  There  is 
nothing  that  fatally  secures  the  attainment  of 
any  of  these  three  results.  All  depends  upon 
the  spirit,  the  skill,  and  the  opportunities  of  the 
teacher,  and  upon  the  awakening  of  the  right 
spirit  in  the  learners.  Instead  of  these  good 
results,  a  failure  to  reach  any  of  these  three 
sorts  of  good  results,  in  any  tangible  form,  is 

272 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

in  case  of  any  given  pupil  or  class  of  pupils 
perfectly  possible.  And,  as  we  have  just  seen, 
the  failure  of  certain  forms  of  athletic  sports 
to  further,  in  certain  well-known  cases,  the 
high  cause  of  loyalty  to  loyalty  has  of  late 
been  far  too  conspicuous.  Can  one  who 
approaches  this  topic  from  the  ethical  side 
suggest  to  you  any  way  in  which  you  may 
hope,  as  a  body,  to  do  more  than  has  yet  been 
done  to  make  physical  education  morally 
serviceable  ?  To  this  question  I  venture,  as  I 
close,  to  suggest  very  fragmentary  answers. 

In  judging  of  the  practical  ideals  that  people 
cherish  regarding  their  calling  and  regarding 
its  results,  one  may  make  use  of  a  tentative 
method  which  is  likely  to  be  at  least  partially 
enlightening.  We  all  of  us  have  had,  in  our 
lives,  what  may  be  called  our  typical  great 
experiences,  —  our  moments  when  life  reached 
for  the  time  its  highest  expression,  the  maxima 
of  our  curve  of  existence.  Poets  love  to  talk 
about  such  moments;  romancers  dwell  upon 
them  in  narrating  their  stories;  our  own 
memories  glow  when  we  recall  our  own  mo- 
T  273 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN    AMERICA 

ments  of  this  general  type.  A  conversion  or  a 
sudden  relief  from  great  sorrow,  a  home- 
coming, the  reunion  of  lovers  long  parted,  the 
moment  of  hearing  the  first  cry  of  some  new- 
born infant,  —  these  are  familiar  instances 
of  what  may  be  such  maxima  in  the  curve  of 
experience  of  this  or  of  that  human  being,  — 
glorious  discoveries  of  new  success  or  of  great 
attainment.  Well,  our  personal  and  our  pro- 
fessional activities,  our  avocations  and  our 
vocations,  our  exercises  and  our  sports,  are 
characterized  each  by  its  own  type  of  maximal 
experiences.  And  you  can  tell  something 
about  the  moral  character  and  the  deeper 
significance  either  of  a  person  or  of  an  occupa- 
tion when  you  hear  some  typical  report  about 
what  was,  from  the  point  of  view  of  this 
person  or  of  this  occupation,  the  type  of  ex- 
perience which  seemed,  in  its  own  place  and 
setting,  to  have  such  a  maximal  character. 
It  has  occurred  to  me  to  suggest,  as  one  way 
of  estimating  the  moral  value  of  those  experi- 
ences which  one  person  or  another  may  as- 
sociate with  athletic  activities,  an  examination 

274 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

of  some  of  the  reports  that  experts,  who  also 
happen  to  be  authors,  have  given  of  what  to 
their  minds  seemed  to  be  the  truly  great  mo- 
ments of  athletic  activity,  —  the  moments  when 
one  most  deeply  experiences  what,  to  himself 
personally,  the  whole  business  in  the  end 
means.  Of  course  our  daily  life  has  to  be  lived, 
whatever  our  profession,  upon  a  somewhat 
commonplace  level.  And  it  is  upon  such  levels 
that,  after  all,  we  have  to  win  many  of  the 
best  moral  results  that  devotion  can  bring  into 
our  lives.  But  just  as  love  is  for  a  lifetime, 
but  the  stories  of  love's  triumphs  centre  about 
the  exaltations  of  the  moment  when  two  souls 
first  find  each  the  other,  so  it  is  our  general 
custom  to  conceive  the  moral  values  of  every- 
day life  in  terms  of  our  memory  or  imagination 
of  the  great  instants  of  life. 

"  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; " 

says  Keats;  and  one  knows  at  once  to  what 
sort  of  exaltation  he  refers.  This  maximum 
of  experience  stands  for  a  type  of  conscious- 
ness in  terms  of  which  the  poet  conceives  all 

275 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

the  long  hours  and  days  through  which  he 
devoted  himself  to  Chapman's  Homer. 

Well,  I  have  asked  myself,  how  do  expert 
athletes  conceive  the  maximal  moments  of 
their  lives  as  athletes?  With  what  exultation 
are  they  filled  when  they  contemplate  their 
greatest  attainments  ?  Tell  me  that,  and  I 
can  do  something  to  comprehend  their  moral 
attitude  toward  their  work,  and  the  perils  and 
the  uses  of  this  attitude. 

Of  course,  any  one  who  tells,  in  an  expert 
way,  a  story  of  athletic  triumphs,  will  depict, 
in  lively  fashion,  the  moment  of  victory.  And, 
of  course,  the  exultation  of  victory,  taken  by 
itself,  has  somewhat  uniform  characters,  such 
as  any  boys'  story  of  sports  or  any  lively  news- 
paper picture  of  a  great  game  will  portray. 
I  need  not  dwell  upon  the  fact  that  victory  in 
any  contest  is  keenly  joyous,  and  constitutes 
a  maximum  point  in  the  curve  of  experience, 
and  that  whoever  writes  a  lively  sporting  story 
keeps  you  in  suspense  for  a  time,  as  the  specta- 
tors at  the  game  are  kept  in  suspense,  and  then 
thrills  you  with  the  elemental  delight  of  the 

276 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

victorious  solution  of  the  problem  of  contest, 
as  the  cheerful  romancer  lets  the  lovers  agonize 
awhile,  and  then  indeed  somehow  startles 
you  with  the  perfectly  familiar  thrill  of  dis- 
covering that  their  hour  of  joy  at  length  arrives. 
Such  incidents  are  sesthetically  attractive; 
but  they  are  not  the  sorts  of  maximal  experi- 
ences that  I  now  have  most  in  mind.  For 
my  present  purpose,  I  want  to  know  whether, 
as  the  expert  recalls  the  moment  of  his  highest 
athletic  attainment,  he  thinks  of  anything 
besides  victory,  and  whether  this  other  feature, 
besides  victory,  which  at  such  great  instants 
he  has  before  him,  and  which  he  later  recalls, 
is  of  the  nature  of  a  morally  significant  en- 
largement or  fulfilment  of  any  higher  self, 
so  that  the  memory  of  this  maximum  is  indeed 
any  sort  of  moral  inspiration  in  later  life. 

Let  me  quote  to  you  at  once  the  report  of 
an  expert,  in  which  he  tells  of  a  great  athletic 
experience  of  his  own,  associated,  as  it  was, 
with  no  little  peril.  In  the  year  1896  Philip 
Stanley  Abbot,  a  Harvard  graduate  of  the 
class  of  1890,  was  killed  by  an  accident  during 

277 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

an  attempted  ascent  of  Mt.  Lefroy,  in  the 
Selkirks.  He  was  a  man  of  great  intellectual 
promise  and  power,  and  an  experienced  and 
devoted  mountain  climber,  whose  death  left 
mourning  a  very  wide  circle  of  friends.  In 
a  memorial  of  Abbot  that  was  published  in 
the  annual  report  of  the  Sierra  Club  of  Cali- 
fornia, there  is  printed  a  passage  from  a  letter 
which  he  once  wrote  to  a  friend  about  his  first 
Selkirk  expedition,  —  an  expedition  antedating 
by  some  time  the  final  and  fatal  attempt  to 
ascend  Mt.  Lefroy.  The  passage  has  the 
interest  that  Abbot,  who  was  a  scholar  and  a 
moralist,  as  well  as  a  mountain  expert,  had 
long  found  in  his  mountain  climbing  a  moral 
inspiration,  which  aided  him  in  the  hard 
work  of  his  practical  life.  He  was  no  pleasure- 
seeker  and  no  boaster.  He  had  chosen  his 
Alpine  avocation  because  he  found  in  it  a 
moral  support  that,  to  his  mind,  justified  its 
peril.  Was  his  judgment  sound  in  this  par- 
ticular? Well,  let  him  tell  his  own  tale:  — 

"Palmer's    old    theory,    that    the    nearest 
approach  that  we  can  make  toward  defining 

278 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

the  summum  bonum  is  to  call  it  *  fulness  of 
life,'  explains  a  great  many  things  to  me. 
Once  we  came  out  at  seven  o'clock  upon  the 
crest  of  a  snow  mountain,  with  two  thousand 
feet  of  rather  difficult  snow  work  before 
us,  when  I  had  expected  plain  sailing,  —  and 
the  daylight  had  already  begun  to  fade.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  two  thousand  feet  we  were, 
as  it  proved,  still  five  miles  from  home ;  but  we 
could  have  camped  there.  But  where  we  were 
there  was  nothing  more  level  than  the  roof  of 
a  house,  except  the  invisible  bottom  of  an 
occasional  huge  crevasse,  half  masked  and 
half  revealed.  I  had  been  feeling  lifeless  all 
that  day,  and  we  had  already  had  nine  hours 
of  work.  But  the  memory  of  that  next  hour 
is  one  of  the  keenest  and  most  unmixed 
pleasures  I  have  carried  away,  —  letting  one's 
self  go  where  the  way  was  clear,  trusting  to 
heels  alone,  but  keeping  the  ice-axe  ready  for 
the  least  slip,  —  twisting  to  and  fro  to  dodge 
the  crevasses,  planning  and  carrying  out  at  the 
same  instant,  —  creeping  across  the  snow- 
bridges  like  snails,  and  going  down  the  plain 

279 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

slopes  almost  by  leaps,  —  alive  to  the  finger- 
tips, —  is  a  sensation  one  can't  communicate 
by  words,  but  you  need  not  try  to  convince  me 
that  it  isn't  primary.  However,  this  by  the 
way." 

You  will  all  recognize  this,  I  take  it,  as  a 
maximal  experience  of  a  type  that  belongs 
to  what  one  might  call  the  lucid  athletic 
activities,  wherein  the  highest  exertion,  the 
completest  devotion  of  the  self  to  the  end  in 
hand,  are  accompanied  by  the  clearest  sense  of 
the  social  relation  to  one's  fellow- workers,  and 
so  by  the  fullest  self-assertion,  self-expression, 
or,  as  Abbot  calls  it,  by  the  fulness  of  life. 

Now  are  all  the  great  sports  equally  charac- 
terized by  such  lucid  self-possession  at  the 
maximal  moments,  —  by  such  complete  union 
of  the  active  self  and  its  object  that  skill, 
devotion,  and  success  are  all  equally  clear 
facts  of  consciousness  just  when  the  loftiest 
height  of  the  experience  is  reached  ?  That 
is  a  technical  question  which  I  have  no  right 
to  try  to  answer  upon  my  own  authority. 
But,  when  I  turn  to  the  ordinary  sporting 

280 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

story,  I  find  that  the  highest  height  is  said  to 
be  reached,  in  the  mental  life  of  some  sports, 
just  when,  amidst  the  plaudits  of  vast  crowds, 
in  the  intoxication  of  relief  from  suspense,  in 
the  exhaustion  of  the  completely  worked  out 
organism,  —  when,  I  say,  at  such  an  instant,  — 
the  higher  centres  refuse  to  function  definitely, 
and  the  victorious  hero  turns  into  an  auto- 
matic physical  mechanism,  that  somehow, 
half  consciously  or  unconsciously,  accom- 
plishes in  a  blind  way  the  crowning  deed  of 
triumph,  while  a  sort  of  aurora  of  glorious 
and  confusedly  blessed  sensations  flickers 
dizzily  and  massively  in  the  place  where  the 
hero's  mind  had  before  seemed  to  dwell. 
In  a  recent  sketch  by  Mr.  Ruhl,  "Left  Be- 
hind," the  success  of  the  hero  in  a  mile  foot- 
race culminates  in  a  kindly  but  subconscious 
automatism  on  the  hero's  part,  whereby  he 
turns  at  the  moment  of  winning,  catches  in 
his  arms  his  fainting  and  defeated  rival  as 
the  latter  crosses  the  line,  and  carries  him, 
then,  to  the  tent  near  by.  What  followed, 
while  the  hero  worked  to  revive  his  prostrate 

281 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

fellow-contestant,  is  thus  depicted:  "Outside 
the  crowd  cheered  and  howled,  and  pushed 
up  against  the  canvas  walls,  and  from  the 
distance  came  the  boom  of  the  band,  marching 
to  them  across  the  field.  He  [the  hero  work- 
ing to  revive  the  defeated  rival]  swabbed  on 
witch  hazel  desperately  —  panting,  dizzy  with 
excitement  and  happiness,  and  a  queer  happy- 
weepy  remorse.  The  Other  Man  opened  his 
eyes  and  blinked. 

"'Bill,'  he  grinned  the  best  he  could,  and 
held  out  his  hand,  'I  guess  we've  been  fools 
long  enough.'  Then  he  got  tired  again. 
'It  was  a  great  race,'  he  said,  without  opening 
his  eyes.  The  hero  replies,  'Yes!  yes.' 
He  meant,"  continues  our  author,  "that  he 
thought  it  had  been  long  enough.  Somehow 
he  couldn't  remember  any  words.  And  then 
the  crowd  came  in." 

Now  contrast  these  two  maximal  moments 
of  athletic  experience:  in  the  one,  the  self 
alive  to  the  finger-tips  with  devotion  and 
triumph,  joyously  laboring  side  by  side  with 
its  comrades  amidst  the  beautiful  and  merci- 

282 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

less  fields  of  snow,  and  just  above  the  half 
visible  depths  of  the  crevasses;  in  the  other, 
the  self  with  its  "  queer  happy-weepy  remorse," 
confused,  automatic,  kindly,  but  maudlin. 
These  are,  I  say,  two  maximal  experiences, 
each  to  be  remembered  for  a  lifetime.  Each 
has  its  obvious  physical  and  psychological 
conditions.  Each  is  quite  in  order  in  its  own 
context.  I  have,  of  course,  no  objection  to 
offer  to  the  existence  of  either  of  them,  when 
it  comes  to  the  man  who  has  earned  it  and 
who  has  his  right  to  it.  But  the  contrast 
suggests  at  once  a  fair  question.  On  the 
whole,  since  we  are  prone  to  estimate  our  lives 
and  our  daily  work  so  much  in  terms  of 
such  maximal  experiences,  let  us  ask  then 
which  forms  of  sport,  other  things  being 
equal,  are,  on  the  whole,  likely  to  be  best 
adapted  to  the  steadiest  sort  of  moral  train- 
ing,—  those  whose  highest  heights  are 
reached  in  a  state  of  "  happy- weepy  re- 
morse," amid  howling  crowds  and  dizzy 
confusions  of  consciousness,  or  those  sports 
whose  loftiest  hours  or  moments  of  triumph 

283 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

leave  the  self  "alive  to  the  finger-tips,''  not 
with  mere  muscular  sensations,  but  with  the 
sense  of  clearly  conscious  devotion,  of  self- 
possession,  and  of  exalted,  yes,  genuinely 
spiritual,  mastery  of  something  that,  however 
hard  or  perilous,  seems  to  be  worth  mastering. 
All  kinds  of  sport  have,  no  doubt,  their  func- 
tions. I  am,  as  you  see,  venturing  to  answer 
here  no  technical  questions;  nor  do  I  doubt 
that  there  are  maximal  moments  in  the  lives 
of  all  of  us  when  we  are,  in  Shelley's  phrase, 
"dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing."  Yet,  on  the 
whole,  I  can  venture  to  say  that,  educationally 
considered,  and  especially  from  the  point  of 
view  of  moral  education,  those  forms  of  sport 
must  be  best  whose  highest  moments  leave  one 
as  clearly  in  possession  of  himself,  and  of 
his  loyal  relations  to  his  mates  and  his  rivals, 
as  the  physical  exhaustions  attending  these 
highest  moments  permit. 

Now  this  word  about  the  experiences  attend- 
ing sport  is  meant  here  simply  to  make  definite 
this  closing  suggestion  regarding  the  conditions 
that  must  aid  in  keeping  either  a  set  of  class 

284 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

exercises  in  gymnastics  or  a  sport  upon  a 
high  level  as  a  means  of  moral  education. 
What  your  athletic  exercises  need,  in  order 
that  they  may  attain  a  high  grade  of  moral 
efficacy,  is  a  set  of  social  conditions  such  as 
tend  to  clear-headedness  rather  than  to  con- 
fusion, such  as  at  their  highest  point  shall  lead 
to  Abbot's  and  Professor  Palmer's  fulness  of 
life  rather  than  to  the  flood  of  "  happy- weepy 
remorse"  or  of  other  enjoyable  destructions 
of  moral  equilibrium.  For  loyalty  means 
clear-headedness;  and  you  all  regard  sound 
wits,  skilful  and  definite  activities,  lucidity, 
as  mental  traits  that  are  to  be  trained  by  the 
greater  part  of  all  those  class  exercises  and  all 
those  sports  that  you  yourselves  most  admire. 
The  evils,  however,  of  the  recent  school  and 
college  sports  have  resulted,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  almost  wholly  from  the  unsound  social 
conditions  which  have  been  allowed  to  sur- 
round and  to  attend  both  the  intercollegiate 
and  the  interscholastic  games.  For  the  ethics 
of  sport  have  come,  through  the  recent  social 
conditions,  to  be  influenced,  both  directly  and 

285 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN    AMERICA 

indirectly,  by  the  confused  and  unprincipled 
sentiments  of  great  crowds  of  people,  and,  in 
general,  by  the  intrusion  of  enthusiasms 
whose  origin  is  due  to  the  fact  that  too  many 
people  have  been  interfering  in  mass,  in 
thoughtless  ways,  through  the  press,  or  through 
the  presence  of  excited  and  cheering  multitudes, 
—  have  been  interfering  with  the  moral  educa- 
tion of  our  youth.  Nobody  can  learn  loyalty 
from  mobs.  The  Harvard  Stadium  is  an 
admirable  place  when  it  is  not  too  full  of 
people.  But  when  it  is  full  of  people  it  is  a 
bad  place  for  the  moral  education  of  our 
athletic  youth,  just  because,  by  the  size  of  the 
crowds  that  it  collects,  it  encourages,  even  in 
the  most  highly  trained  men  and  even  in  the 
most  intelligent  and  skilful  of  sports,  ideals 
that  inevitably  centre  far  too  much  about  those 
poorer  sorts  of  maximal  experiences  to  which 
I  have  made  reference  and  too  little  about 
that  type  of  fulness  of  life  which  Philip 
Abbot  glorified.  Every  athletic  reform  at 
Harvard  must  aim  to  minimize  not  so  much  the 
athletic  as  the  social  perils  of  modern  sport. 

286 


PHYSICAL   TRAINING   IN   AMERICA 

But  you,  the  teachers  engaged  in  physical 
education,  are  fostering  the  sort  of  athletic 
life  that  flourishes  in  small,  clearly  defined, 
well-organized  social  groups.  Whether  class 
work  or  games  are  made  prominent  in  this  or 
in  that  part  of  your  teaching,  you  are  all 
working  to  combine  in  your  pupils  skill, 
devotion,  loyalty  of  the  individual  to  his  com- 
munity, and,  whenever  you  have  an  opportu- 
nity to  insist  upon  fair  play  in  difficult  situa- 
tions, you  are  teaching  loyalty  to  loyalty. 

My  purpose  in  this  paper  has  been  to  sug- 
gest the  correlation  of  your  work  with  that  of 
others  who  are  engaged  in  moral  education. 
Loyalty  to  the  community  and  loyalty  to 
loyalty,  —  and  both  of  them  expressed,  not 
in  confused  sentiments,  but  through  clearly 
conscious  deeds,  —  these  are  the  traits  that 
the  teacher  of  morals  must  inculcate.  You 
see  the  task.  I  have  suggested  its  dangers. 
I  am  sure  that  you,  "alive  to  the  finger- 
tips," are  ready  for  your  share  of  the  perils 
of  our  great  modern  educational  effort  to  find 
our  way  to  the  high  places  of  the  Spirit. 

287 


"  A  POWER  IN  THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIVING,"  says  the  New  York  Tribune  of 

The  Philosophy  of  Loyalty 

By  JOSIAH  ROYCE,  Ph.D.,  LL.D. 

Professor  of  the  History  of  Philosophy,  Harvard  University  ;  author  of 

"  Outlines  of  Psychology,"  "  The  Conception  of  God," 

"  The  World  and  the  Individual,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.60 

"The  ethical  value  of  loyalty  needed  discussion,  especially  as  so 
much  so-called  loyalty  is  mere  self-delusion.  To  be  loyal  in  mere 
words,  or  negatively,  to  the  shell  of  an  outworn  convention  is  not  to  be 
loyal  at  all,  or  wise.  Moreover,  true  loyalty  must  express  itself  practi- 
cally, in  the  way  of  a  man's  life,  in  his  deeds.  Cherished  without  rea- 
soning, and  to  no  really  practical  purpose,  it  avails  nothing.  The  drift 
of  circumstances  that  may  make  a  man  of  high  and  strong  personal 
qualities  a  power  for  lasting  good  in  a  community,  or  develop  him  as  a 
harmful  influence  to  society,  does  not  escape  Professor  Royce's  attention. 
The  present  significance  of  his  book,  therefore,  is  evident.  .  .  .  The 
author  disclaims  the  idea  of  making  a  text-book  or  an  elaborately  tech- 
nical work  of  philosophical  research.  The  appeal  of  the  book  is  to  all 
readers." — New  York  Times. 

"  A  thoroughly  sincere  attempt  to  set  clearly  before  the  American 
people  the  need  for  aiming  at  the  highest  ethical  ideals  in  their  daily 
life,  in  their  intercourse  with  one  another,  and  in  their  relations  with 
the  outside  world.  Believing  that  certain  present-day  conditions  and 
tendencies  indicate  a  lowering  of  individual  and  national  standards, 
Professor  Royce  gives  himself  resolutely  to  the  task  of  remedial  and 
constructive  criticism.  His  programme  of  reform  is  summed  up  in  the 
single  phrase  —  the  cultivation  of  a  spirit  of  loyalty.  .  .  .  His  work  is 
immediately  and  concretely  inspiring  to  the  man  not  at  all  concerned 
with  the  subtleties  of  metaphysical  disquisition,  but  very  much  concerned 
in  the  affairs  of  every-day  existence.  It  helps  him  to  appreciate  the 
poverty  of  egotistical  ideals  —  such  as  the  ideal  of  power  —  and  it 
plainly  propounds  means  whereby  life  may  be  made  really  worth 
living."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  It  gives  beautiful  and  forceful  expression  to  ethical  idealism,  and 
grandly  fulfils  its  purpose  '  to  simplify  men's  moral  issues,  to  clear  their 
vision  for  the  sight  of  the  eternal,  to  win  hearts  for  loyalty.'  .  .  .  There 
is  moral  enthusiasm  in  it,  there  is  patriotism  in  it,  there  is  love  of  hu- 
manity in  it.  It  comes  from  the  heart  of  a  man,  from  the  big  heart  of  a 
big  man,  from  a  fine  loyal  soul.  Fichte  never  spoke  with  greater  fer- 
vor and  eloquence  than  does  this  idealist  of  Cambridge,  and  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  his  words  will  sink  deep  into  the  hearts  of  the  nation."  — 
DR.  FRANK  THILLY  in  The  Philosophical  Review. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

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64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK 


"A  book  for  every  parent  and  thinker" 

Outlines  of  Psychology 

AN    ELEMENTARY   TREATISE   WITH 
SOME    PRACTICAL   APPLICATIONS 

By  JOSIAH  ROYCE,    Ph.D.,  LL.D. 

PROFESSOR  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  PHILOSOPHY  IN 
HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 

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More  and  more  the  practice  is  growing  of  defining  a  good  many  of 
the  problems  of  practical  life  in  psychological  terms  so  far  as  they  are 
able  to  do  so ;  and  to  those  who  share  this  tendency,  Dr.  Royce's  book 
will  be  particularly  interesting. 

He  presupposes  a  serious  reader,  one  who  really  "  wants  to  know," 
but  not  one  trained  either  in  experimental  methods  or  in  philosophical 
inquiries.  He  tries  to  tell  such  a  reader  a  few  things  that  seem  to  him 
important,  about  the  most  fundamental  and  general  processes,  laws, 
and  conditions  of  mental  life. 

"  It  is  not  a  '  pedagogical  psychology,'  but  a  scientific  psychology, 
written  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  readily  accessible  to  teachers  a  deep 
and  true  knowledge  of  the  natures  which  they  seek  to  influence."  — 
Western  Journal  of  Education. 

"Obviously  a  treatise  upon  psychology  that  deals  with  the  subject 
with  this  broad,  free,  strong  handling  is  suggestive  and  constructive; 
helps  us  to  organize  our  ideas;  throws  out  new  light;  cannot  be  dis- 
regarded by  the  students  of  the  mind.  The  treatise,  however,  has  a 
special  value  in  practical  applications.  These  are  not  '  helps  to  the 
teacher,'  they  are  criticisms  upon  life  and  society  and  are  helps  to  the 
thinker  who  is  a  teacher."  —  W.  E.  CHANCELLOR  in  the  Joitrnal  of 
Pedagogy. 

"The  reader  of  this  book,  who,  wishing  to  make  an  elementary 
study  of  the  inner  mind  of  the  world,  takes  Professor  Royce  for  his 
guide,  will  find  himself  increasingly  in  serious  companionship  with  a 
winsome  as  well  as  a  knowing  leader."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 


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Social   Psychology 


By  EDWARD  A   ROSS 

Professor  of  Sociology  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin ; 

author  of  "  Social  Control,"  "  The  Foundations 

of  Sociology,"  "  Sin  and  Society,"  etc. 


Cloth,  i2mo,  372  pages,  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.65 

A  study  of  the  uniformities  that  come  into  existence  among  men 
from  social  causes.  Those  which  are  due  to  a  common  physical  en- 
vironment, and  those  which  arise  from  race  endowment,  or  historical 
conditions,  are  no  part  of  the  author's  subject  at  present.  He  seeks  to 
enlarge  and  to  clear  our  knowledge  of  society  by  explaining  how  so 
many  similarities  of  feeling,  belief,  or  purpose,  have  established  them- 
selves as  a  result  of  mental  contacts  or  mental  interactions. 

These  general  levels  of  uniformity  among  men  supply  a  basis  for 
those  groupings,  cooperations,  and  conflicts,  which  are  the  special 
study  of  sociology  proper.  As  an  introduction  to  that  science  this  book 
is,  therefore,  almost  indispensable. 

"  One  must  dissent  from  it  occasionally,  but  it  is  a  wholesome,  stimu- 
lating, and  serviceable  work."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  Professor  Ross  carries  his  reader  through  the  fascinating  problems 
of  suggestibility,  the  crowd,  the  mob,  fashion,  conventionality,  custom, 
and  social  progress.  If  one-half  of  his  pages  are  filled  with  long  cita- 
tions familiar  to  most  readers  of  sociology,  the  repetition  is  always 
timely  and  pointed.  No  occasion  for  holding  up  the  mirror  to  Ameri- 
cans is  lost;  anecdotes  about  our  fads,  religious  and  financial  manias, 
society  sillinesses,  deep-rooted  irrationalities,  etc.,  drive  home  the 
author's  contentions  most  effectively  just  because  everybody  has  heard 
them  a  hundred  times  and  knows  them  to  be  true.  .  .  .  He  has  laid 
bare  the  more  vital  social  traits,  good  and  bad,  of  the  human  mind, 
and  in  a  manner  calculated  to  awaken  thought."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


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Races  and  Immigrants  in  America 

By  JOHN  R.  COMMONS 


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Books  upon  the  problems  of  immigration  which  have  recently  ap- 
peared have  been  of  two  kinds :  one  descriptive  and  narrative,  graphic 
sketches  of  travel  abroad  in  the  sources  of  the  flood,  or  scenic  portrai- 
ture of  the  types  coming  to  us;  the  other,  books  of  statistics,  data 
from  the  census  and  discussion  of  the  political  phases  of  the  movement. 
What  characterizes  Mr.  John  R.  Commons'  Races  and  Immigrants  in 
America  is  that  while  he  keeps  certain  elements  of  the  other  types,  he 
is  chiefly  interested  in  his  problem  as  a  student  of  sociology.  He  dis- 
cusses Race  philosophically.  He  analyzes  democracy  as  a  force  bear- 
ing upon  the  social  assimilation  involved.  He  is  not  interested  so 
much  in  the  mere  data  of  immigration  in  industry  as  he  is  in  discover- 
ing what  function  industry  forms  in  inducing  immigration  in  the  first 
place  and  moulding  it  later  on.  The  same  may  be  said  about  his  care- 
ful discussion  of  the  relation  of  immigration  to  crime  and  pauperism 
and  politics.  Just  as  Professor  Steiner  depicts  the  different  races  to  us, 
so  Professor  Commons  analyzes  their  traits  and  contributions  to  the 
body  politic.  The  book  is  therefore  not  so  much  original  in  its  data, 
as  in  the  interpretation  of  the  data.  It  is  valuable  largely  because  it  is 
the  last  book,  using  a  wide  range  of  readings  in  other  drier  or  more 
picturesque  literature,  and  giving  us,  in  addition  to  facts,  his  judgment 
as  to  their  interpretation.  Only  a  trained  and  versatile  scholar  could 
have  given  us  what  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  most  valuable  and  compen- 
dious book  on  this  subject,  up  to  date.  The  bibliography  furnished  is 
of  especial  value  to  the  scholar. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JAN3<m4 

'  ,  TJ 

7 16  75 

SEP  22  RECD 

APR  15 '90 

MAR211989REC'0 


lOOw-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


JUN  03 1996 IEC1 


